FMS-Blog : The Wildly Whimsical, Mostly Musical WebLog
Monday, August 28, 2006
What Life is For - Part II
It often seems that life's lessons all come at once, like the number 34 on a rainy afternoon, piling up behind one another as if to make sure that you don't miss it this time. Certainly, this bank holiday weekend has been one of those times when a sense of perspective seems to have been brutally beaten into me, perhaps just when I needed it most.
You see, I was writing yesterday's blog about Martin's adventures in Europe just as my mother was getting ready to visit my Great Aunt, Marjory, who has been ill in hospital having suffered a heart attack. Once I was done with the entry and when Mum was all ready to go, we headed off to Airedale Hospital (near Keighley) with greetings card and flowers in hand to cheer up my increasingly elderly relative after her funny turn at the end of last week. It turns out, though, that Marjory was even more poorly than we had first feared and the doctor in charge at the Coronary Care Unit that day confirmed that she was gravely ill - the staff on the ward were really just trying their best to keep her comfortable while the inevitable took place. Hasten to add, I was back at the hospital this morning to pay my last respects to a woman who I've always quite liked from afar - we were never terribly close but when I did chat to her at family occasions I found her mostly to be intelligent and witty. And so, as I stood over her shrunken body, now devoid of all sense, a clarity washed through me - a renewed realisation that the centre of such an understated event as this is where we're all heading. We're not so much heading, in fact, as hurtling towards this quiet, solemn end. And as it takes place, of course, the world outside continues rushing forward obliviously and without empathy, on a promise to itself that there are more important things to be concerned with.
The concept of death is a biggie, especially for those people like myself who do not buy stories of white lights, reunions with long gone relatives and eternities in either the glory of heaven or the fiery pits of hell, and it's not one I'm going to directly deal with here, but it is significant that when someone close passes away we are given yet another opportunity to reflect on the brevity, fragility and ultimately the intrinsic value of life as we know it here and now. Moreover, it leaves me with a personal and urgent need to recognise the difference between high and low quality life experience, and by extension to strive for the latter leaving matters of lesser importance (such as attachments to riches, objects, grudges etc.) very much behind. Like it or not, the things that are really worthwhile hanging on to, such as the relationships we have with our loved ones, could be gone for good in the blink of an eye and, although we're all at least partially aware of this, the point cannot be overstated enough in a time and a place where emphasis is continually laid very much on the superficial. The message I suppose is not to wait until tomorrow to stop tying yourself in knots over things that just simply don't matter, but rather take action today to do whatever it is that's going to make a positive difference to your life, whether it be going for that walk along the river, taking the kite out, putting in your application for a new job or course, or simply holding someone you care about. I'm not nearly the only one who keeps having to relearn this lesson - many of us have watched very dear people pass away (having themselves experienced lives in portions of varying degrees of fulfilment), briefly but bluntly realised what really matters to us and then over the weeks and months following allowed all the silly, unimportant concerns to again get in the way of our happiness. And this is why I state that as my aunt lay still in a hospital bed this morning, having lost her battle to survive, I couldn't help wondering if she'd have any regrets could she have known that today's sunrise would be the last she would see. Who knows, but one thing is for sure - I am reminded by the experience of a spectator on the scene that leaving the most important thing in life, your happiness, to be dealt with tomorrow, next week or next year could be leaving it far too late.
You see, I was writing yesterday's blog about Martin's adventures in Europe just as my mother was getting ready to visit my Great Aunt, Marjory, who has been ill in hospital having suffered a heart attack. Once I was done with the entry and when Mum was all ready to go, we headed off to Airedale Hospital (near Keighley) with greetings card and flowers in hand to cheer up my increasingly elderly relative after her funny turn at the end of last week. It turns out, though, that Marjory was even more poorly than we had first feared and the doctor in charge at the Coronary Care Unit that day confirmed that she was gravely ill - the staff on the ward were really just trying their best to keep her comfortable while the inevitable took place. Hasten to add, I was back at the hospital this morning to pay my last respects to a woman who I've always quite liked from afar - we were never terribly close but when I did chat to her at family occasions I found her mostly to be intelligent and witty. And so, as I stood over her shrunken body, now devoid of all sense, a clarity washed through me - a renewed realisation that the centre of such an understated event as this is where we're all heading. We're not so much heading, in fact, as hurtling towards this quiet, solemn end. And as it takes place, of course, the world outside continues rushing forward obliviously and without empathy, on a promise to itself that there are more important things to be concerned with.
The concept of death is a biggie, especially for those people like myself who do not buy stories of white lights, reunions with long gone relatives and eternities in either the glory of heaven or the fiery pits of hell, and it's not one I'm going to directly deal with here, but it is significant that when someone close passes away we are given yet another opportunity to reflect on the brevity, fragility and ultimately the intrinsic value of life as we know it here and now. Moreover, it leaves me with a personal and urgent need to recognise the difference between high and low quality life experience, and by extension to strive for the latter leaving matters of lesser importance (such as attachments to riches, objects, grudges etc.) very much behind. Like it or not, the things that are really worthwhile hanging on to, such as the relationships we have with our loved ones, could be gone for good in the blink of an eye and, although we're all at least partially aware of this, the point cannot be overstated enough in a time and a place where emphasis is continually laid very much on the superficial. The message I suppose is not to wait until tomorrow to stop tying yourself in knots over things that just simply don't matter, but rather take action today to do whatever it is that's going to make a positive difference to your life, whether it be going for that walk along the river, taking the kite out, putting in your application for a new job or course, or simply holding someone you care about. I'm not nearly the only one who keeps having to relearn this lesson - many of us have watched very dear people pass away (having themselves experienced lives in portions of varying degrees of fulfilment), briefly but bluntly realised what really matters to us and then over the weeks and months following allowed all the silly, unimportant concerns to again get in the way of our happiness. And this is why I state that as my aunt lay still in a hospital bed this morning, having lost her battle to survive, I couldn't help wondering if she'd have any regrets could she have known that today's sunrise would be the last she would see. Who knows, but one thing is for sure - I am reminded by the experience of a spectator on the scene that leaving the most important thing in life, your happiness, to be dealt with tomorrow, next week or next year could be leaving it far too late.
Marjory Rowntree, R. I. P.
