And the Answer Is . . .

I made a card once that said, on the front, "The answer is love." The inside said, "the question is irrelevant." I really liked that card. Unfortunately, my skills as calligrapher are not nearly as advanced as my skills as philosopher, so the clumsy (but true) card remains unsent. Perhaps one day I will re-design it to be worthy of its sentiment.

 

My sister Sari and I used to send each other failed examples of our respective card-making. Sari was an excellent calligrapher. She sent me a card whose front read, in a beautiful hand, something like: "My prayers enter me and swirl through my soul and come out as laughter." This was so representative of Sari, for whom laughter was the source of all good, and the message was reinforced when you tried to open the card and realized that she had mistakenly written the quotation upside down on the card, with the fold of the card at the bottom and the opening at the top. I kept this botched card for a long time in her memory—until I recently sent it to a mutual friend who needed some cheering up.

 

But this Sari card is not what I wanted to talk about—namely, that I had it right years ago: the answer is always love, and the question is indeed irrelevant.

 

I've been thinking lately about death. As a society, we approach death with foreboding, terror, and a negative, why-does-this-have-to-happen-to-me frame of mind. Well, what I've been thinking is that I want to see my Leaving of Life as an exciting event. Not a celebration, necessarily (after all, I do expect at least a few people to be sad that they will no longer see my smiling face). But exciting, folks! This is the only time in this life of mine (the life when I am this "me" and not some other me, as yet unrevealed)—as I say, the only time in my life when I will experience this particular adventure. Is this not amazing? I, who never go anywhere. I, who fight for my right to sit in my own backyard and rest between bouts of watering the garden. I, the most homebound of earthly beings, will be taking a journey, heading off into the unknown.

 

I can barely imagine the excitement.

 

In order to be convincing, I need to surround this concept with a few conditions: first, that I am old enough to die without a feeling of a too-early departure, and second, that the event will be relatively pain-free (lingering illnesses carry their own emotions, none of which, perhaps, is excitement).

 

Writing this takes me back to an essay I wrote a long time ago about my death: lying in state surrounded by family, no tears, flannel nightgown if it's winter.

 

A short digression here: I realized the other day that the best funeral clothing for me (were there to be a funeral, which there won't) would be a new flannel nightgown. One of those thick ones, full-length, long sleeves (none of that three-quarter sleeve nonsense; who wants a flannel nightie with sleeves that don't cover the fore-arm?) Perhaps I should go out and buy one now, to be sure I have some choice in the matter. But if I did that, I'd be tempted to wear it on the first chilly night--and surely the nightie for my final trip should be brand-new.

 

Let me return to the idea of celebration. We celebrate birthdays and anniversaries, we celebrate the birth of a new baby. What bigger milestone is there than death? Each of us gets to die, and only once, so I see it as possibly the biggest event of a lifetime. No matter what one's view is of the after-life (Something and Nothing are the options), the fact remains that I want the end of this life to be filled with a sense of occasion. Spare me the late-life birthdays (oh, are you still here?). Just join me at the end, with a flute of good Champagne and perhaps a little well-sung Mozart, and give three cheers: Here's to you! Well done and safe journey! Hip-hip-hurray!

 

 

Copyright 2013 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com