Feast of All Souls

Today, on the Feast of All Souls, I light candles

for each of our dead relatives and prop their photographs against the towering votives. Their faces look back at me: Nonna Maria, with braids pinned to the top of her head, holding a fat hen at each hip; sweet, skinny Granny Anderson, all poised in a pink, silky blouse with her lips pressed purposefully together; my dear and precious Grams, in her royal blue button earrings and that gorgeous head of white, fluffy curls. As I study the dead, I give particular attention to thoughts of my own mortality. That we have only one life, of undesignated length, is really not that morbid a thing to consider; it’s just true. It’s not that I ponder on how I will die, or even when; but rather I am compelled to give great consideration to the way I'm living now. I ask the question: am I living the kind of life I will be happy to look back on later? Suppose there really are (as a dear friend of mine once suggested) videotapes of our lives, archived for our viewing pleasure in the afterlife. Will I be reclined in one of God's armchairs, watching my life roll across the screen with a feeling of satisfaction? Will I be screaming things at myself on the screen, the way you yell at an actor when they’re about to do something really stupid? Will there be spans of my life that I will wish I could go back and redo? Scenes I’ll want to rewind? Or fast forward? Which ones will they be? Which choices and habits will I be kicking myself over? Which opportunities will I be sorry I did not take? Will I be left with the feeling that I made a contribution of lasting value?

It’s not completely fair, of course, to ask such questions, with hindsight often being 20/20. And I get that we are often doing the best we can with the knowledge we have. I also know, that no matter how hard we try – no matter how many hours of yoga we do, how many times a day we pray, how many vegetables we consume, how many nature hikes we take or roses we smell, no matter how many kisses we give – that there will be some tapes we'll want to turn off, and some we'll enjoy watching. Because life is like that; it's a mixed bag. And we human beings are mixed bags, too. Nonetheless, I am inspired to add to my bag any prized wisdom, any valuable lesson, any fruitful experience, any sage advice or any good habit, that will ensure a more meaningful, a more purpose-filled, a more thoroughly good and useful life.

Some believe we are reincarnated – that once we die, we can come back to earth again -- as say, a cat. And how sweet that would be: the chance to be a mostly napping, sometimes nibbling, often rolling onto one’s back in the hot sun, only to sleep some more, kind of creature. Sign me up! But I am not inclined to believe that way. While I am always willing to be surprised and resurface with a set of whiskers, for now I am going to assume that I get this one, blessed, limited-time offer to live for real.

I also know some folks who are super focused on the afterlife, like it’s where all the real living takes place. My grandma has always referred to the glory days in Heaven -- like we’re all gonna be square dancing and eating ice cream floats, and ice skating across streets of gold. And maybe we are. I don’t know. Nobody knows. But the eternity of later, the unknown eternity of later, for me, is not enough to void out the significance of the present moment. I don’t know what happens after. I only know what is happening now.

I watch with wonder the flickering flame of each candle poised in a line across the buffet, the wicks dancing for only their allotted time, and not a moment longer. They do not know how long they will be burning or when they will be extinguished. I don’t know if my life will be cut short, like the life of my friend's dad, who tragically died of a brain tumor last week;* or if it will linger sweetly on and on, like my great grandmother who lived to be 104. Therefore, not knowing, I must proceed with my life -- with every living, flowing, breathing, beating, pounding, pumping ounce of me. In the words of Mary Oliver: Tell me, what will you do with your one wild and precious life?**

*This piece was written in memory of Dick Gabel, who just recently died of a brain tumor

**This quote comes from my favorite Mary Oliver poem, The Summer Day