Why I Live My Life As If It Were My Last Day

 

Because it very well could be? 

But seriously. I am 67 years old with my natural erosion at a tipping point. Arthritis, high blood pressure, spidey veins, shortness of breath, high cholesterol, numbness, palpitations, a weak heart, the looming threat of an aneurysm, a sister who died at 65 and a father who died at 66. There are also thousands, less natural, ways to die. At 67 years old, you realize you have been lucky, dodged numerous bullets, that an individual life is but a fragment of time. My belief, for the most part, is to make the best of every opportunity and not worry. Matt: 6:27 Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to life? 

Maranasati (death awareness), is a Buddhist meditation practice of reminding oneself that death can occur at any moment. In an age when we're taught to always look at the positive, this misunderstood meditation may be viewed as negative, but negative and positive are two halves of the same whole. It may seem ghastly to meditate upon death, but it it a practical and beneficial meditation that serves to create more awareness of self and circumstances. 

For instance, if I meditate on being hit by a vehicle on a road in Vancouver and perhaps losing a leg as a result, then the next time I bike to work, I'll be more mindful and won't think of cutting across traffic, or feel the need to answer my phone. That meditative image of a leg lost through carelessness will be held as subconscious reference in my mind as I ride. If I meditate about getting my limbs torn off in a rollover while driving on I-95, well, I'll think twice before speeding to work or answering my iphone while it rings on the seat beside me. Talk to anyone who has had these events happen to them and see if they don't regret not being more aware while driving. The images produced in your mind for any circumstance serve as not only a warning, but also an instruction to heed. You ignore these warnings at your own peril. 

The Stoics also wrote volumes on death because death is a 'recurring theme across all human life.'  Death was seen simply as a 'return to nature.'  By thinking about death on a regular basis, the fear and ambiguity of death and the unknown was removed. Death is a part of life. 

I have been thinking regularly about my own death and where I want to die. Not how and not now, although going to sleep and never waking up seems to be the most popular wish of many. The other day I laughed out loud when I heard myself say 'I want to be settled by the time I'm 80.' It seems ridiculous, but do the math. 

At the age of 67, I believe I still have a good 10 years left to wander around the wilderness. So here's the plan:  Move to a warm country, to a medium-sized city with loads of history and culture. Seek out other like-minded individuals who like to walk, visit museums, play music, bathe in hot springs, converse at cafes in the afternoon and at little barritas at night. Get to know the locals and speak their language, seek out a family for support and finally, have a drink every night with a Cheers! to my continued good health. And after experiencing all these wonderful things, or perhaps during, it will be my time to die.

 

 

Pay It Backwards

     Currently, there has been an outcry of condemnation for the norms of the past - slavery, racism, genocide, segregation, sexual harassment, sexual assault and bullying - to list a few. A comeuppance on behavior has led to charges in some instances. Think Bill Cosby and Harvey Weinstein, two pimply degenerates doing insufficent time. But they are only two of many.  

     The MeToo movement, years past but still in our rearview, has given many women a thoughtful moment, including me. Perhaps I, too, might have acted more assertively in past situations. Here's one example of how I'd like to rewind and do it over:     

     I lived in a small town once upon a time. Phil was a local painter, a grandiose landscape artist around my age, 40, and a good friend of my boyfriend. He was good-looking in an alcoholic Cary Grantish sort of way and had a young girlfriend with a great personality, but it didn't last long as Phil was having a shallower but more meaningful relationship with himself. 

     One night, me and my boyfriend, after drinking and partying and playing music at the bar all night, stumbled over to Phil's cabin to continue drinking and partying. Phil waved us in, drunk and pacing back and forth, excited about his latest painting, the 'best I've ever done'  he said, as he pointed to the large landscape sitting on an easel in the middle of the room. We drank more beer to celebrate. Yippee. Yahoo, my boyfriend yelled, his party call, while Phil bounced around pointing out the various aspects of his painting. He had never been so inspired.  

    After a few hours, we had drunk all the beer, our energy was flagging and it was late and with a lightening sky, it was time to go. My boyfriend and I stumbled towards the door with Phil behind us. But just as I was turning to say so long and stepping over the threshold, Phil's oily fingers grabbed my crotch from behind and twisted my little clam as if setting a minute minder. Just like that. When I turned, his eyes were gleaming. 

      How would the adult in me handle that situation if it happened today? What would I do? Just leave again, as I did? No. Because with age, I have a better sense of how to level the playing field because at that level, it's anybody's game. I've also learned through years of study and research that, for the most part, retribution is therapeutic.

      So here's how the night would have ended. After Phil pinches me, I would turn around and wobble back into his house saying I really had to bloody well pee. Right now! I'd charge back into the living room and while stumbling towards the shit can, I'd trip and drunkenly collapse over his painting, knocking it backwards and taking the table down with it, accidentally smearing his 'best ever' with cigarette butts, beer and ashes. I'd make like I was too drunk to stand, cursing and fumbling as I lie there, humping on the painting just for a lark to lighten the mood, cracking the frame as I lean on it to stand up again on my wobbly legs. So. Sorry.