A long time ago I read a book called Voluntary Simplicity: Toward a Way of Life that is Outwardly Simple, Inwardly Rich, by Duane Elgin. I don’t remember much about the book, except for one chapter: “Death as your Friend.” As I recall, the idea was that if you keep an awareness of your mortality in mind, there are many ways in which it can keep life sweeter, and helps keep you from taking things for granted because you always know your meter is going to run out someday.
In Altadena I live at the top of a long hill way above town, and there are a lot of ways I could get home. Because I’m from California, I usually think, what is the most efficient route? Which way has the fewest traffic lights, the least traffic, the fastest speed limit? But for some reason, one day, I had this thought: I could change my route so that I drive by the cemetery every day, even though the speed limit on that route is only 25 mph, and even though there are at least three extra stop signs. That way I will have a little shot of mortality consciousness automatically inserted into every day of my life. Kind of like in my morning prayer where the words are “You have returned my soul to me with mercy,” where I remember to be grateful that I woke up again and I have another shot at human life on this precious Earth.
One day I went and hung out at the cemetery. I packed a bag of books and a car cup of hot coffee, thinking I would just find a bench in a shady spot and have a peaceful place to read among the silent headstones. As an introvert, that seems to me like the very best kind of company I could find. Much to my surprise, there were no benches anywhere in the cemetery, shady or otherwise. But I found a nice huge tree with a lot of shade, and leaned my back up against it and had a nice little respite. Then I did spend a little time walking among the headstones, thinking about the lives represented there. And now, every time I drive by, I think, “There are my neighbors.” And I remember that I am a mortal being.
When I came home after having written this piece in the atrium at Kaiser after getting some lab work done, my husband Howard was mindlessly whistling the tune whose lyrics are “the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…” (!)