So death, he thought, has finally made its appearance on stage. But what a banal
entrance—the curtains jerked open by a roly–poly dermatologist with a cucumber nose,
magnifying glass in hand, and costumed in white hospital coat with his name stitched in
dark blue letters upon his upper breast pocket.
And the closing scene? Destined, most likely, to be equally banal. His costume
would be his wrinkled pinstriped New York Yankees night–shirt with DiMaggio`s
number 5 on the back. The stage set? The same queen–sized bed in which he had slept for
thirty years, crumpled clothes on the chair beside the bed and, upon his bedside table, a
stack of unread novels unaware that their time would now never come. A whim–pering,
disappointing finale. Surely, Julius thought, the glorious adventure of his life deserved
something more...more...more what?
A scene he had witnessed a few months ago on a Hawaiian vacation came to mind.
While hiking he had quite by chance come upon a large Buddhist retreat center and saw a
young woman walking though a circular labyrinth, constructed of small lava stones.
Reaching the center of the labyrinth she stopped and remained motionless in a lengthy
standing meditation. Julius`s knee–jerk reaction to such religious ritual was not charitable,
generally falling somewhere in the territory between ridicule and revulsion.
But, now, as he thought about that meditating young woman, he experienced softer
feelings—a flood of compassion for her and for all his fellow humans who are victims of
that freakish twist of evolution that grants self–awareness but not the requisite
psychological equipment to deal with the pain of transient existence. And so throughout
the years, the centuries, the millennia, we have relentlessly constructed makeshift denials
of finiteness. Would we, would any of us, ever be done with our search for a higher
power with whom we can merge and exist forever, for God–given instruction manuals,
for some sign of a larger established design, for ritual and ceremony?
And yet, considering his name on death`s roster, Julius wondered whether a little
ceremony might not be such a bad thing. He jerked away from his own thought as if
scorched—so thoroughly dissonant was it with his lifelong antagonism to ritual. He had
always despised the tools by which religions strip their followers of reason and freedom:
the ceremonial robes, incense, holy books, mesmerizing Gregorian chants, prayer wheels,
prayer rugs, shawls and skullcaps, bishop`s miters and crosiers, holy wafers and wines,
last rites, heads bobbing and bodies swaying to ancient chants—all of which he
considered the paraphernalia of the most powerful and longest–running con game in
history, a game which empowered the leaders and satisfied the congregation`s lust for
submission.
But now, with death standing next to him, Julius noted that his vehemence had lost
its bite. Maybe it was simplyimposed ritual he disliked. Perhaps a good word could be
found for a little personal creative ceremony. He was touched by the newspaper
descriptions of the firemen at ground zero in New York, stopping, standing, and
removing hats to honor the dead as each pallet of newly discovered remains was brought
to the surface. Nothing wrong with honoring the dead...no, not the dead, but honoring the
life of the one who died. Or was it something more than honoring, more than sanctifying?
Wasn`t the gesture, the ritual of the firemen, also signifying connectivity? The
recognition of their relationship, their unity with each victim?
Julius had a personal taste of connectivity a few days after his fateful meeting with
his dermatologist when he attended his support group of fellow psychotherapists. His
fellow doctors were stunned when Julius revealed the news of his melanoma. After
encouraging him to talk himself out, each group member expressed his shock and sorrow.
Julius couldn`t find any more words, nor could anyone else. A couple of times someone
started to talk but did not, and then it was as if the group agreed nonverbally that words
were not necessary. For the final twenty minutes all sat in silence. Such prolonged
silences in groups are almost invariably awkward, but this one felt different, almost
comforting. Julius was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that the silence felt
«sacred.» Later it occurred to him that the members not only were expressing grief but
were also removing their hats, standing at attention, joining and honoring his life.
And perhaps this was a way of honoring their own lives, Julius thought. What else
do we have? What else other than this miraculous blessed interval of being and self–awareness? If anything is to be honored and blessed, it should simply be this—the
priceless gift of sheer existence. To live in despair because life is finite or because life
has no higher purpose or embedded design is crass ingratitude. To dream up an
omniscient creator and devote our life to endless genuflection seems pointless. And
wasteful, too: why squander all that love on a phantasm when there seems too little love
to go around on Earth as it is? Better to embrace Spinoza`s and Einstein`s solution:
simply bow one`s head, tip one`s hat to the elegant laws and mystery of nature, and go
about the business of living.
These were not new thoughts for Julius—he had always known of finiteness and
the evanescence of consciousness. But there is knowing andknowing. And death`s
presence on the stage brought him closer to really knowing. It was not that he had grown
wiser: it was only that the removal of distractions—ambition, sexual passion, money,
prestige, applause, popularity—offered a purer vision. Wasn`t such detachment the
Buddha`s truth? Perhaps so, but he preferred the path of the Greeks: everything in
moderation. Too much of life`s show is missed if we never take off our coats and join in
the fun. Why rush to the exit door before closing time?
After a few days, when Julius felt calmer with fewer sweeps of panic, his thoughts turned
to the future. «One good year» Bob King had said, «no guarantees, but it would not be
unreasonable to hope for at least a year of good health.» But how to spend that year? One
thing he resolved was not to make that one good year a bad year by grieving that it was
not more than a year.
One night, unable to sleep and craving some comfort, he restlessly browsed in his
library. He could find nothing written in his own field that seemed even remotely relevant
to his life situation, nothing pertaining to how should one live, or find meaning in one`s
remaining days. But then his eye fell upon a dog–eared copy of Nietzsche`sThus Spake
Zarathustra. Julius knew this book well: decades ago he had thoroughly studied it while
writing an article on the significant but unacknowledged influence of Nietzsche on
Freud.Zarathustra was a brave book which more than any other, Julius thought, teaches
how to revere and celebrate life. Yes, this might be the ticket. Too anxious to read
systematically, he flipped the pages randomly and sampled some of the lines he had
highlighted.
«To change вЂ?it was` into вЂ?thus I willed it`—that alone shall I call redemption.»
Julius understood Nietzsche`s words to mean that he had to choose his life—he had
to live it rather than be lived by it. In other words he should love his destiny. And above
all there was Zarathustra`s oft–repeated question whether we would be willing to repeat
the precise life we have lived again and again throughout eternity. A curious thought
experiment—yet, the more he thought about it, the more guidance it provided:
Nietzsche`s message to us was to live life in such a way that we would be willing to
repeat the same life eternally.
He continued flipping the pages and stopped at two passages highlighted heavily in
neon pink: «Consummate your life.» «Die at the right time.»
