I live with a divided mind. It might be what they call—oh, I've forgotten—that psychological state of carrying two opposed ideas in your head at the same time. I know the phrase as well as I know . . . well, you get the idea.
Anyway, here are the two notions, more or less. Oh, this is all about death and suddenly I don't really want to talk about death. But this is my chance to be both brave and boring at the same time. And there's another word I wanted to say it would reveal me as being—but I've lost that, too. I never said I was perfect. I used to think it, but I never said it.
All right. One part of me sees death as the logical outcome of life. As in "duh!" And sees it as not frightful. That part of me imagines the web of the universe, the limitless source that is unconditional love—all those good things we talk about in New Age circles.
When I am in this mode, I can accept the eventual fact of my–of everyone's—death. No big deal, it happens to all of us.
Come to think of it, we really do discount those things that "happen to everyone" as if the ordinariness of the event or the situation makes it less worthy of examination. Except for death. Death is different. It may happen to everyone, we can say to ourselves, but inside we know (until we are, say forty or a bit older) that it will not happen to ME. Ordinary it may be, but I, my dear, am exceptional.
Anyway, I'm past 45 and I know it's coming and on good days that's okay with me. All I can do is live as fully as is possible for me, pushing envelopes now and then, but more often simply staying with whatever it is that's happening without seeking the unusual. As a friend says, just living the brave life of what is and letting the next step come as it comes.
But another part of me resents this inevitability, and I finally realized why. I have a curiosity to see the end of the story. Anyone who is awake knows that the story never ends—but that doesn't change the desire to be around to see at least the next few chapters. The "what will happen next" to this or that situation. Circumstances change at every moment. Things that seem set in stone and settled forever suddenly are unrecognizable. Neighbours move, new ones arrive. Friends become ill, then recover—or not. Divorces divide families and friends. Old friends drift away and new interests bring new friends. And then there are the grandchildren. What will happen next?
And that's what I mean by wanting to see the end of the story. It's that continual desire to be around for "what's next." I know that there's no logic in wanting to see the end of the story, since the story will never end, so I'll let go of wanting such finality. But "what will happen to . . . " is the hook that keeps me going.
I imagine being 90, tired of an aching body, perhaps, but still wanting to know what will happen.
It's all about story.
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