Plague Redux 6 - Finito

MAY 20, 2020

Some years ago, Jamie spent the last week of a friend's life by her side. They sang and prayed and traded tears and laughter until the end. It was calm and peaceful. There was resolution, and sleep. Later, J told me how much she cherished this experience. I mulled that over for awhile, knowing how important J's beliefs were to her, and how important my beliefs were to me, said beliefs being decidedly more pagan than hers "J," I said, "When my time comes, forget the prayers, the singing, know what I'm sayin'? Just bring me a bucket of fried chicken. The colonel's fine. Thighs."

So, what has this to do with the plague? Word has it that by the first of June, two weeks from now, 20,000 more Americans will be dead. "Who shall live, and who shall die?" Jews wonder during Yom Kippur, their holiest day. Will they be written in the book of life for the coming year? Who will be alive two weeks from now? Will I?

This plague has changed the way we die. Our caregivers are encased in hazmats, masks, and plastic. Tubes are in the patient.Ventilators hide the patient's face. No one can see anyone else. And people die like this. Alone. Connected by tubes. Encased in machines. Among strangers. Without the touch of a hand. Without ritual. Wrapped and protected. Protected from what? It comes anyway. Where is the word for dying like this?

Two prisoners condemned to death are asked by the warden for their last wish. The first prisoner says, “Warden, I want to hear “Achy Breaky Heart” one more time.” “OK,” says the warden, “What about you,” he asks the second prisoner. “Warden,” the man says, “Kill me first.”

I've been reading stuff like Camus' "Myth of Sisyphus" and Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning", Whitman's celebration and Hannah Arendt's "The Human Condition". How come? They're all about the meaning of life, so maybe I've been looking to see if I've skipped anything? The meaning of life? Who knows, and who cares? I have a number of definitions. One, when my grandson shrieks with laughter because I'm goofy. It is a perfect moment, and, in that moment, there is only that. Two, when my words work. Three, when my brother and sister, and I laugh about our crazy mother. Four, the fact that my wife still loves me. Five, the faces of my children. Six, chocolate ice cream. More? You get the point. It’s up to me. The meaning of my life is whatever I'm doing in the here and now. The substance of my day is its meaning. To deny it is to waste it.

There is another way to look at it. My amigo, Rob Lindstrom, a very bright guy, who sees the organization of the world through his original concept of "Sphericity", recently sent me a quote from Joseph Campbell. "People say that what we're seeking is a meaning for life...I think what we're saying is an experience of being live, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances with our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being live."  

The rapture of being alive.

Still, it is certainly awful out there. Every day another atrocity emanates from that seditious oaf in the White House. Is it a waste of my time to pay attention? Every breath I take that includes this guy is a breath I could have taken elsewhere. I write; I talk; I vote. What else? Where else?

Marianne Williamson once looked at me hard and declared, "There is in you a place of perfect peace". Tru dat. She said it. To me. Forget where and how. That's between Marianne and myself, but she did say it. To me. There is some truth to this, even though the current toxicity makes life that much harder. Saying "om" out loud could get you killed. However, like Brigadoon, the legendary Scotch village that comes to life only once every hundred years, said peace is not always in place. Sometimes, I need to fetch it back, call it in, like a wild turkey. Humor me. I find it helpful to think this way.

Spring. Air flush with scent. Cut for sign. Find your spot in turkey woods and settle in. Take a seat with your back against a sturdy tree. Get quiet. Don't move. Stay still. Start calling. You can use a turkey bone or a caller from the market. Yelps. Clucks. Burbles. Chirps. Talk like a hen to lure in a jake. Get his attention. Seduce him. Time. Patience. Sounds a hen would make except it's you. Peace is necessary. You are absolutely there without being anywhere else. Peace is necessary. Without it, you will stutter and fail. So, what's the point? In order to hunt turkey, you need to be in the woods. If you're in the woods you're out of touch with everything else. No wonder it's peaceful. What about when you're not in the woods? There's no turkey hunting in the wilds of Manhattan. There's also no turkey. So, I don't live there. I live here, in the woods.

Ommmmmmm...


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