Approaching death with curiosity

This year, the universe shared with me a startling message, a lesson, on mortality. Knowledge that one is going to eventually die is one thing; watching people struggle, cope, sometimes succeed, and sometimes succumb puts everything we do into an alternate perspective.

While it has not been my own, direct encounters, the sheer number of encounters to which I’ve borne witness this year struck a blow.

Old people at the end of their life, surviving.

Young people passing away.

There are those who’ve known death’s coming,

And those for which it is sudden and unexpected.

Those for whom death arrives peacefully,

And those for whom death comes at the hands of violence.

There are those left behind to pick up the pieces.

And those trying their best to hold space for supporting the grieving.

My love for my mother-in-law is different than any love I’ve experienced.

Caydence. A student to teach so much in her beautiful, short life.

Bob senior. An inspiration to loving music.

The lives taken in the train crash outside town.

Those lost in the tragic fires, earthquakes, and hurricanes.

Keisha.

The puppy in Saipan, hit by a speeding motorist.

#CarisaStrong, fighting every day against a terrible battle of breast cancer so she can see her 3 year old daughter grow into a beautiful young woman.

The homicide victim a block from my house.

Mrs. Holmes, beloved 4th grade teacher, who didn’t make it in to school this morning.

To those of my friends who have lost parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, spouses, children, friends, pets. To the children who have lost classmates, friends, and teachers.

To those who have said their final goodbyes to a loved one, only to experience a miraculous recovery.

To those who have said goodbyes and held hands in a final breath.

To those who never got to say goodbye. Who came home from school one day to their mother in tears, telling them daddy wouldn’t be home for Christmas.

To those fighting. To those letting go.

I have never felt more keenly aware of my mortality than I do today. That this evening I could go to bed for the last time. That tomorrow could be my last day. How am I spending these pieces of my life? What do I have to show for it? If I knew I would die tomorrow, what would I truly be doing? What would I celebrate? What would I regret doing? What would I regret NOT doing? What can we each to do live our days to their fullest, their best, so that when death comes knocking, as he will to us all, we can greet him with pride and dignity, with eyes open to the next adventure.

Greeting death with curiosity.

How does one approach mortality with curiosity? Or is it that, in approaching life with curiosity, we may sustain our curiosity even when death appears?