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nythroughthelens · 7 years

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"Love is so short, forgetting is so long..." I grew up believing everyone around me could die at any moment. My parent's religion was an end times religion and so the childhood books that I used to learn to read featured colorful illustrations of people dying in fires as (their) god killed them during the last days which would presumably be happening at any minute.

I was told that the people in my classes at school who were not the same religion would fatefully end up just like the people in those illustrations. My inner voice knew this seemed suspect since I actually really liked most of the people in my classes at school (much to the distress of my parents). But that early insistence that the world would burn along with my 'worldly' friends and first crushes informed how I felt about everyone around me. If my parents went away for a weekend, I was convinced they would never come back and I would immediately grieve as they were halfway out the door.

If I left my teenage friends as I did when I was taken (not at will) to live in New Mexico for a year in High School to forget them once and for all, I grieved for the loss of them as if I would have never seen them again (I did of course. The year long trip - a last ditch attempt to get me to keep on going with the religion - didn't work at all).

While my parents used that fear that the current world would end to constantly try to convert and save people, I translated that fear into an almost nihilistic embrace of life in my late teens and early twenties after they disowned me and I moved out on my own. Long after my parents and that religion was out of my life, I carried that feeling with me: the one that hinted to me persistently that every day could be my last (since I was now 'worldly') and every person I cared about could perish at any second. It was like a locket I had been wearing around my neck for so long that it burned into my chest searing its impact deep into in my soul. Every moment felt like it could be the final one.

All conversations, even the silliest ones, felt as if they had a profound shadow edging its way over every joke. Shared experiences had a bittersweet impact.

I never said goodnight to a friend or lover without wondering if I told them how much they meant to me or if I properly resolved any issues out of a subconscious feeling that I could potentially wake up with them gone. Regret was something I feared more than loss. I worded that last paragraph in past tense but the truth is I still carry that fatalism with me as if it is woven into the fabric of my existence.

It's one of the reasons I initially went into pre-med when I finally decided to go to college. Death, which always seemed imminent, just felt like another experience on the spectrum of life and figuring out how our strange outward structures kept us waking up every day was an ongoing fascination. "My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing..." I instinctively said yes to Brooke Shaden when she asked me at the last minute if I wanted to come speak at a creative retreat she was having this past weekend. Another speaker had to bow out due to a circumstance of loss and I was apparently on the list of speakers for next year so she messaged me asking if I could come speak and attend the retreat.

It was a reflex reaction to say yes to that request. That deeply embedded fatalism that runs rampant in my bloodstream sent shivers up my arm when I thought of missing something profound. This happens to me often. It's a paradoxical reflex I carry with me alongside anxiety. Imagine saying yes to jumping out of a plane while also being mortally afraid of heights and a loss of control.

In some ways this weird fatalistic reflex reaction has worked out to my advantage in the past few years as I have literally found myself saying yes to getting into a helicopter while also feeling like my heart would unceremoniously hurl itself up my throat and out of my mouth (for example).

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'" It was in Western Greenland nearly a year ago on an icebreaker that I remember standing on the deck outside at midnight thinking about the weirdness of time as a concept.

Earlier that day I had seen a documentary about how time flows differently in the Arctic where there are seasons of darkness and seasons of light.

In a place where darkness and light dictate life and where death tip toes on the perimeters of reality teetering on the thinning ice, time is simultaneously more profound and less profound. That night, I watched ice float across the vast sea as the snow covered mountains jutted up from the water like heartbeats until the dark blue whisper of night fell onto the sea like a blanket and the impermanence of Earth and humanity was tangible in that moment as if I could touch the ephemerality with my frozen fingertips.

"Reality is a permeable membrane that time slips in and out of, and time is malleable, bent by the wings of a plane or the cracking of ice sheets."

The above sentence is one that I wrote down that night that has haunted me every since.

Until this past weekend. I spent a year thinking about the above encounter. When I had to write about my book during this year of pondering all of this, I wrote about how fascinated and appalled I was by mortality, about how time simultaneously feels like a thief and an absurd imagined concept. "Love is so short, forgetting is so long..." I cried and laughed with so many other creative spirits this past weekend, maybe more than I ever have. While I initially went as a speaker, I relished meeting everyone and sharing in their own mini and major moments of catharsis.

A light switched on in my soul though when I was introduced to another of the speakers. We shared stories about a mutual friend (ironically the Astronaut Commander Hadfield who I was with during the Arctic encounter described above) and laughed a lot.

I wasn't aware of what he was speaking about or what his story was until he briefly answered what he would be speaking about before we had to go to scheduled morning lecture. His name is Jeremie Saunders and he was born with Cystic Fibrosis and he will die at any point in the next 10 years, maybe sooner, maybe later. Who knows? Again, time and mortality are simultaneously absurd.

It wasn't until I heard him give his talk though that everything shifted for me. His talk wasn't about how he has perceived his life as carrying out a death sentence but rather how he views his knowledge of his own shifting expiration date as a gift because it has let him live in a way that has caused him to embrace the life and breaths he is living and breathing now. (please check him out: he has a podcast called Sickboy that “focuses on the absurd, inspirational, educational, and often times, hilarious stories of everyday people who are living with serious, chronic & terminal illnesses.” It’s brilliant). The thing is, we are all going to die. All of us. I had heard this fact poignantly stated by Commander Hadfield in the Arctic in the context of explaining his own philosophy on life.

This isn't the first time I have thought about this. In fact, I have thought about it for decades. It has peppered every fatalistic thought I have had.

At that time, I remember looking around the room when Commander Hadfield stated that truth. I heard the audible gasps and witnessed the uncomfortable shifting in chairs. We avoid thinking of the fragility of our own mortality at the expense of enjoying it to its full extent because we think somehow that not thinking of it will render us immortal. If we never think about it maybe we can cheat the life cycle and transcend this mortal existence.

It's the weightiness of how we perceive time along with the lightness of our perception that alters our vision of life. In truth, we are carrying the DNA of an almost overwhelming amount of people who have all lived and died lives, some short and some long in a relative sense, and those lives have had an impact in some way. So when I listened to Jeremie's perspective, I felt as if I finally heard someone channeling the absurdity of existence in a poignant and hilarious way as if to let everyone know that life is meant to be lived to its fullest extent.

And I knew right then and there with almost unwavering certainty what I want to work on that may span the rest of whatever life I have left. "And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture."

I saw the first photo of me in this post in an end of the retreat slideshow. I remember the moment I walked up that path to see what was in the distance. Surrounded by trees, I felt alive. And in an instant I thought of everything I shared in the first parts of this post and how I have never shared any of that to complete strangers. What an either perfectly complementary or divergent set of thoughts to have.

"Love is so short, forgetting is so long..." I met so many people like Kristina and Jeremie this weekend who created a ripple in the fabric of my soul.

I looked into people's eyes and ugly cried with every ounce of my being. I shared deep belly laughter with more people than I can count on two hands and hugged everyone as if I would never see them again (because that is what I do as I have just established in this post.)

I never once went to bed each night wondering if the day was complete enough in thoughts, words, actions.

Brooke, beyond being an incredible artist, is also a connector of souls.

Thank you Brooke.

And thank you to everyone who inspired me and touched me in such an indelible way.

You may have also inadvertently just shaped the rest of my career. --- * all quotes aside from one of mine are from one of my favorite poems by Pablo Neruda - Tonight I Can Write (Poem 20) - if you are unfamiliar - this video below is my favorite way to experience it...

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(it’s part of a playlist I made a long time ago about all the scenes and videos that have made a huge impression on my life and art if you are curious: Scenes that have stuck to my ribs and clung to my heart) The beautiful forest photos in this post were taken by Kim Winey.

#death #life #art #vivienne gucwa #brooke shaden #jeremie saunders

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