Image: Teece Aronin |
So, I don't fear death nearly as much now, and when it's my time to go, I'll go gracefully, because if there is a heaven, I don't want people there to think I'm not a team player.
A friend of mine once suggested that his elderly, demanding father was refusing to die just so he could be a burden to his kids.
"My father," he said, "may never die. He isn't going gently into that good night, nor is he raging. He simply ignores Death."
That was more than 10 years ago, so my guess is that Death has gotten that man's attention by now.
As to an afterlife, here are the reasons I no longer worry:
1. Either I go to heaven, or I don't. Either way, I'm probably fine because I think I've lived the kind of life likely to get me in. If there's not a heaven, I won't know the difference - unless, by some oversight in the recordkeeping, I go to the other place.
If heaven doesn't exist, I doubt hell does, or purgatory, for that matter. Then again, I suppose there could be an afterlife that's not heaven or hell or purgatory. If it's not hell or purgatory, that would be great, but if it's not heaven, that could be bad, especially since we're talking about an eternity of something other than heaven. And if by some chance, there's an afterlife that isn't eternal, I might have to die all over again which seems totally unfair. Then where the hell am I?
Wait - these are supposed to be reasons I'm not worried, so let me back up.
2. If there is no afterlife, as I said before, I won't know that. My awareness will be the same as before I was conceived: zilch. Before I came to be down here, I wasn't running around heaven, tugging God's sleeve, and nagging Him to hurry up. My fear of death was predicated on the notion that I would have some kind of awareness of my lack of life, and if that were the case, I would have to be conscious and existing in an afterlife. Then again, I could be in purgatory or hell. Ugh.
3. I'll get to play the harp. And when presented with the prospect ossibility of acquiring a new skill such as harp-playing, I choose to not sweat little details like how I will suddenly know how to play a harp.
4. After I die, I get access to the vault where they store the answers to all the unsolved mysteries, such as why John Lennon ever let Yoko Ono sing.
One thing that still bothers me is that many of the words we use to describe the state or process of no longer living sound so death-y.
Rather than die, I'd prefer to plooze, and I think we should replace the word death with plooze and dying with ploozing.
Let's test plooze out by using it in a sentence:
"Did you hear about Frank? He ploozed last year after a fall."
Doesn't that sound better? Like Frank slipped and took an unexpected trip down a slide at a water park.
I can joke all I want, but now I'm being serious:
As to an afterlife, here are the reasons I no longer worry:
1. Either I go to heaven, or I don't. Either way, I'm probably fine because I think I've lived the kind of life likely to get me in. If there's not a heaven, I won't know the difference - unless, by some oversight in the recordkeeping, I go to the other place.
If heaven doesn't exist, I doubt hell does, or purgatory, for that matter. Then again, I suppose there could be an afterlife that's not heaven or hell or purgatory. If it's not hell or purgatory, that would be great, but if it's not heaven, that could be bad, especially since we're talking about an eternity of something other than heaven. And if by some chance, there's an afterlife that isn't eternal, I might have to die all over again which seems totally unfair. Then where the hell am I?
Wait - these are supposed to be reasons I'm not worried, so let me back up.
2. If there is no afterlife, as I said before, I won't know that. My awareness will be the same as before I was conceived: zilch. Before I came to be down here, I wasn't running around heaven, tugging God's sleeve, and nagging Him to hurry up. My fear of death was predicated on the notion that I would have some kind of awareness of my lack of life, and if that were the case, I would have to be conscious and existing in an afterlife. Then again, I could be in purgatory or hell. Ugh.
3. I'll get to play the harp. And when presented with the prospect ossibility of acquiring a new skill such as harp-playing, I choose to not sweat little details like how I will suddenly know how to play a harp.
4. After I die, I get access to the vault where they store the answers to all the unsolved mysteries, such as why John Lennon ever let Yoko Ono sing.
One thing that still bothers me is that many of the words we use to describe the state or process of no longer living sound so death-y.
Rather than die, I'd prefer to plooze, and I think we should replace the word death with plooze and dying with ploozing.
Let's test plooze out by using it in a sentence:
"Did you hear about Frank? He ploozed last year after a fall."
Doesn't that sound better? Like Frank slipped and took an unexpected trip down a slide at a water park.
I can joke all I want, but now I'm being serious:
About a month after my mother died, I laid down on my bed and closed my eyes. Mind drifting, but fully awake, I wasn't consciously thinking about her. Suddenly, I heard her voice, blossoming with delight, the state of being in which she spent much of her earthly life.
"It is so wonderful!" she said.
"It is so wonderful!" she said.