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Author Archives: Emily Eaton

About Emily Eaton

I'm just a mom, trying to figure out how to create my "new normal" after my son Julian was diagnosed with Leukemia, then died 15 days later -- just 9 days before his 4th birthday. I'm determined not to let my future be focused on grief. I want to take my cherished memories of Julian with me as I move *forward* into a future that once again includes happiness and joy.

Everywhere always.

03 Mar
Julian in Times Square on August 24, 2022

Today is Julian’s 12th Angelversary. He’s now been gone three times longer than he was on the planet.

My memories of the earliest dark days 12 years ago are mercifully fuzzy, but I remember having two primary fears. First, that I would forget him. Second, that he would forget me. It didn’t take me long to realize how crazy my first concern was. But the second – would he forget me? – lingered longer.

I grew up in a loving Christian home, and was taught the concept of Heaven at an early age. As I grew older, I shed some of the aspects of religion that didn’t resonate with me, but I’ve always believed in the Heaven part. It always made sense to me that we are, in fact, “spiritual beings having a human experience.” And when this human experience is complete – when the Earth School lessons are learned – of course our souls would go back to where we came from.

Twelve years ago I wondered, what does that mean to my angel Julian? I knew his soul still existed even if his body didn’t… but would I feel his presence? Would I ever see evidence of his spirit in my life? Or might his soul have more important business to attend to?

Today, at the 12-year mark, I can answer that question. I now know it was as silly to worry about him forgetting me as me forgetting him. The answer is YES, I would feel his presence. YES I did, and do, literally see evidence of his spirit in my life.

My family and I get signs from him all the time. Sometimes, the signs are subtle. These signs show up in the little details of life, like finding what we call a “Julian spot” in a busy parking lot, or being assigned room number 312 (his birthday) in a hotel.

Oscar’s dime found shortly after the shooting at Michigan State University

Other times, the evidence of Julian’s energy seems almost magical. Like, the appearance of dimes. Literally, dimes. As in coins, but never pennies or nickels. We regularly receive dimes from Julian in places where they absolutely did not exist before. Dimes show up when we need a little a wave from our angel to let us know he’s with us. They show up at the best of times, and at the worst of times. Recently, Julian sent his brother Oscar a dime immediately after a terrifying mass shooting on Oscar’s college campus. When we need a little boost from beyond, he sends us a dime.

And then there are times when the signs are so ridiculously huge, it makes us laugh. Like a few months ago, when my husband and I were driving Oscar to begin his first year of college. Here we were, traveling across the country for this huge milestone… and at the exact same time, Julian’s face was smiling over Times Square. Yes of course there were humans involved — the Children’s Cancer Research Fund had contacted us months earlier to request our permission to include Julian in a fundraising project in New York City — but the timing of that was all Julian. His brother was literally on the road to college, and Julian made it clear that he was on this journey with us.

Twelve years ago, I worried that Julian might forget me. Today I know he never will. From parking spots to dimes to a billboard in Times Square, he is with me everywhere always.

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2023 in Angelversaries

 

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Today, we MOURN.

03 Mar

Today is Julian’s 11th Angelversary, and yet his death is quite low on the list of things I’m mourning today.

Today, one of my very best friends’ brother is taking his last breaths in an ICU. Yesterday, my dear cousin’s close friend died. A few months ago, another bff lost her brother in a freak farm accident.

And that’s just the mourning of death within my inner circle.

My inner circle of beloved friends also includes multiple people mourning heartbreaking fertility frustrations, scary health diagnoses, and significant concerns for their parents and/or children. And outside of my inner circle, Russia is still besieging Ukraine and Covid-19 continues to take lives.

Today, things feel very NOT OK.

Today, my Angelversary message is dedicated specifically to S, S, B, K, C, R, and C:
I am with you; we walk this journey together.

Today, we join hands and MOURN.

Tomorrow, or the next day, or some other day in the future… we will be OK.

But today, we MOURN. And that’s OK, too.

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2022 in Angelversaries

 

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This “being human” is a guest house.

03 Mar
"The Guest House" by Rumi

“The Guest House” by Rumi

Today is Julian‘s tenth Angelversary.
Ten years since his life ended way too soon.
Ten years of creating new normal.

Ten years ago, I couldn’t imagine living without my youngest son.
Yet, here I am.

Not because I’m “strong” or “brave.”
Not because I’m resilient.

It’s because I have no other option.

It’s also because, as the 13th-century Sufi mystic Rumi says, this “being human” is a guest house.

 

 

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Jalaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks (The Essential Rumi)

You can also listen to this poem in a song called “Arrival” by Hiatus, an Iranian ambient musician. (I had it on repeat as I wrote this post.)


The first time I heard this poem was when a dear family friend read it at Julian’s Celebration of Life, and it’s taken me this long to really appreciate the truth of it. Like a Cosmic Joke, it really is as simple as that. This “being human” is a guest house. Our experiences and emotions are our guests, sent as guides from beyond.

It’s natural to want to fight it. But, like it or not, our souls are here to learn from each “unexpected visitor” that arrives at our doorstep. We all have different visitors; we all have different soul journeys. 

Our souls didn’t sign up for an easy ride. We learn a lot through love and joy, but we learn MORE through loss and heartbreak. It’s the full spectrum of experiences — *especially* the negative ones — that provide the lessons that we most need to learn in this lifetime.

Rumi wrote The Guest House in the 13th century, when life expectancy was under 35, and child mortality might have been as high as 50%. The earliest audiences of this poem would have been intimately familiar with trauma and loss.

Today, thankfully, our human journeys are longer and healthier. And yet, the challenge is the same: we must be grateful for whatever crosses our path in this lifetime, because each experience has been sent as a guide from beyond. And each one is necessary for soul growth.

I will always have a Julian-sized hole in my heart. I will always mourn my family’s indescribable loss. But when I remind myself, “this being human is a guest house,” I feel a glimmer of peace. Even when those guests are “a crowd of sorrows / who violently sweep your house / empty of its furniture,” I do my best to treat them honorably.

Everything I experience in this lifetime has been sent to teach me the lessons my soul signed up for in the first place. On my best days, I meet them at the door of my guest house and respectfully invite them in. I welcome each one as a guide sent from beyond.

 

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2021 in Angelversaries

 

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Loss is Soulcraft.

03 Mar
Loss is Soulcraft.

Today is Julian’s 9th Angelversary. It’s also Super Tuesday here in the United States. I never imagined I’d be inspired by politics as I write a blog post about grief and loss, but here we are.

I didn’t consider myself “political” until just a few years ago. It is one of the many ways I’ve changed as a direct result of experiencing the loss of a child. My family and I really get it that life is too short to be complacent. Life is too short not to pay attention to the world around me. Life is too short not to fight for what I believe in. Sometimes, life is too short… period. 

So I get involved. I do my research, and I develop my opinions. I’m vocal about my opinions, and I participate in good-faith debates when I have the opportunity. I recognize that my voice MATTERS.

And even if things don’t go the way I hoped they would, at least I know I was in the arena. I fought the good fight. I made a DIFFERENCE.

It is no secret that I was, and still am, an enthusiastic supporter of Mayor Pete Buttigieg. When he announced he was suspending his 2020 presidential campaign on Sunday night, I was heartbroken. I watched his speech with tears in my eyes and a sob in my throat. I was particularly touched when he said:

“Politics at its worst is ugly. But at its best, politics can lift us up. It is not just policymaking. It is moral. It is soulcraft.”

I thought about that word, “soulcraft.” That, I believe, is why we’re here on the planet in the first place. To craft our soul. We are here for our soul to learn and grow.

And that doesn’t happen without loss.

So, whether we are suffering from the end of a political campaign or the end of a life, these losses shape our human experience. They make us who we are meant to be.

Loss is soulcraft.

I’m nine years into my journey as a bereaved mother. I wish I had been given a different path. I wish there was a different outline for me to follow in this Earth School of soulcraft. But I accept it. I appreciate every opportunity for my soul to learn and grow. I wouldn’t be who I am today if not for the glorious blessings AND the one devastating tragedy that my life has brought me so far.

So… to all the Super Tuesday winners and losers, to all the bereaved parents, to those who seek the fullest expression of life, and to everyone who goes ALL IN…

Congratulations on your successful soulcraft. 

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2020 in Angelversaries

 

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Keep Moving Forward.

03 Mar

Today is Julian’s eighth Angelversary. Ever since year one, my family gathers together on March 3rd to celebrate his life and the profound privilege it is for all of us to be alive. We focus on the family who is still here on the planet, and we are reminded never to take each other for granted. 

Today is also a day for personal reflection, as I review my progress over the past year. Now that I’ve completed eight years of The After, I can see my grief journey has gotten a little easier each year.

The first year was the worst, of course. The first birthday without him, the first time someone asked me how many children I have, the first vacation as a family of three… these firsts were impossible. After the firsts, each repeated instance became slightly less impossible. After almost eight years, I assumed all of my firsts were behind me.

Turns out, I was wrong. There was one really big first left to experience: the first time a friend called me, sobbing, “Oh Emily… Anna died yesterday.”

Sweet Anna. A kind, brave, curious 11-year-old girl I spent time with every summer for the past six years. She was more than just “a child I knew” or “my friends’ daughter.” We roasted marshmallows and had meaningful conversations together. I’m pretty sure I knew her better than I know my niece and nephews.

Anna was not a typical 11-year-old. She loved playing tennis, catching frogs, and the color purple. She identified as a liberal, and really understood what that meant. (How many 11YOs understand that? I don’t know any, besides Anna.) She had a motto, and repeated it often to her parents and friends. (How many 11YOs have a motto? I don’t know any, besides Anna.)

This special child was almost exactly the same age that Julian would have been. They never met each other, but they had a lot in common. They both had a twinkle in their eye, and a serious (but not terminal) health condition. They both had the best doctors who followed the best protocols at the best hospitals. And despite their diagnoses, they both were expected to live long healthy lives. But then… they didn’t.

Until that phone call, it didn’t occur to me to brace myself for the first death of a child, after my own. The first time I witnessed a friend take her first steps on the same path I’d been walking for more than seven years.

After I received that phone call, I sat at my kitchen counter and sobbed. Suddenly, my grief scab had been ripped off. I wept for Julian, I wept for Anna, I wept for Anna’s parents, and I wept for bereaved parents everywhere.

And then, after the initial shock wore off, I knew I had a decision to make: who would I be for my friend?

The easier choice would be to back away, become aloof, and tell my friend it was just too painful for me to go through this with her. The harder choice was to dive in to her experience with her, and to become the kind of guide and resource that I would have wanted in the days following Julian’s death.

I wish I could say it was an easy decision, but it wasn’t. I knew that choosing to move forward and travel this path with my friend would mean re-traveling the path myself. Was I up for that?

Ultimately, yes, of course I was. I took my friend by the hand, and we started walking the path.

We walked through the Dark Days, when nothing mattered and everything was a devastating blur. Somehow a zombie-like, latte-fueled version of ourselves was able to make cremation arrangements and decide how to celebrate our child’s life. We wondered, how can this possibly be real life?

We walked through the Evil-Inner-Critic Days, when we were attacked by that vicious voice in our head that told us our child’s death was definitely our fault, because we are the MOTHER and it is our JOB to protect our child from any and every danger, including dangers that came from within their own bodies. We were easily convinced when the voice told us, “a good mother wouldn’t WANT to survive the death of her child — how dare you try to move forward!” Our sad-grief turned into guilt-grief. We couldn’t stop that ruthless judge in our head, but we learned to recognize her. We named her Janice.

We walked through the Numbing Days, when we tried to replace our grief — and shut Janice up for a minute — with food or sleep or TV or sex or alcohol or whatever gave us the smallest whisper of pleasure in the middle of our black cloud of grief.

We walked through the Re-Entry Days, when we welcomed the return to our professional jobs, just so we could take a temporary break from grieving. We interacted with co-workers and baristas and all the random people we crossed paths with, never knowing when the next emotional breakdown would happen. We celebrated small wins, like having a day when we cried instead of sobbed.

Eventually, we arrived at the Creating-New-Normal Days, when we realized we will never have our old life again, but we can build a new one. We learned that this new life won’t be free from darkness, but there’s plenty of light if we’re willing to let it in. We accepted that we will probably never kill off our evil inner critic, but we’ve gained the strength to say “F off, Janice!” when necessary.

My friend and I are still walking that path, and we always will be. It’s not a path we chose, but it’s the path we’re on. And we’re walking it one step after the other.

We Keep Moving Forward.

Why? Because Anna told us to. She gave very specific instructions to everyone who knew her.

She wasn’t just a 11-year-old with a motto, she was a 11-year-old whose motto was “Keep Moving Forward” — KMF for short.

So that is what we do. We KMF. Day by day, step by step, my friend and I walk the path.

We Keep Moving Forward.

“It doesn’t matter how hard you can hit,
it matters how hard you can get hit,
and Keep Moving Forward.”
– Rocky Balboa

KMF 
💜

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2019 in Angelversaries

 

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Both are true.

03 Mar

Today is Julian’s seventh Angelversary. In the spirit of celebration and remembrance, I invite you to watch this video and take a moment to remember Julian and your own loved ones who have passed on to the Sky World:

Let’s put our minds together as one
And remember the ones who’ve passed on to the Sky World
Their life duties are complete
They are living peacefully
In the Sky World , In the Sky World.

This video moved me so deeply when I first saw it. If my heart took the form of song and dance today, this would be it. Because today is not a day for sadness and despair. Today is a day to celebrate the four short years we had with Julian, and to remember that he’s not “lost” — his life duties were complete, and he peacefully moved on to the Sky World.

Today is also a day for me to notice how my perspective on life (and death) has shifted in the past seven years. As my mind floats back to those early days, I remember talking to a woman who had lost a daughter many years earlier. She promised, “It may not get better, but it will get easier.” Initially, that seemed impossible.

When I was in the early stages of my grief, I couldn’t even imagine a life that would become easier… let alone better. Up to that point, I had spent my whole adult life working hard to create and control my life. Then, something profoundly tragic happened that was beyond my control — and no amount of hard work, good intentions, or desperate prayers could change that.

I realize now that I was not only grieving my son, I was grieving a total breakdown of my philosophy of life. But with time, I learned to surrender my need for control, and I released the belief that life was controllable in the first place. I stopped fighting the past, and eventually accepted the (unacceptable) present, including the aspects of the present that appear to be contradictory:

My son’s death was an unacceptable tragedy… AND I accept it. Both are true. 

I experienced the very worst thing a parent could experience… AND I have a lot to be grateful for. Both are true. 

I would do anything to bring him back… AND my family and I have had amazing experiences in the last seven years that were a direct result of Julian’s death. Both are true. 

My son died… AND there’s a lot to love about my life. Both are true. 

Today I am reminding myself, it did get easier. It got better, too. My heart is dancing and singing in remembrance of Julian. I am giving thanks for the love I feel and the lessons Julian continues to teach me, because he has passed on to the Sky World… AND he is with me forever. Both are true. 

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2018 in Angelversaries

 

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There and here.

03 Mar

img_1565Today is Julian’s sixth Angelversary. Six years since he lost his battle with leukemia and left the planet. In the early days, I couldn’t imagine how I would be able to live without him. Six years later, I’m living… but I’m not without him. Because he is both “there” and here.

Every once in a while, someone will shyly ask me, “Do you ever sense that he is with you? Do you communicate with him? Do you get signs from him?” And the answer is yes, yes, and yes. Constantly… if I’m paying attention.

Sometimes it’s little things, like looking at the clock when it reads exactly on the hour (to which I always respond, “Hi baby!”). Or, a parking lot that is completely full, except for the spot closest to the door (in our family, that’s known as the “Julian Spot”). Sometimes it’s coins crossing my path unexpectedly, dimes especially. Sometimes these are isolated events, but often they have a frequency. For example, in the past 24 hours, I estimate that I’ve seen the clock at X:00 at least 7 times. That’s not a coincidence, that’s Julian saying “Hi. I’m with you. Always, but especially today.”

Sometimes the gifts from Julian make me laugh in their awesomeness. As I’ve shared before, it’s because of Julian that we are good friends with a famous chef. He’s in the process of opening a new restaurant, and we recently received an invitation for a friends-and-family preview night before they open. The event is on March 12th, the day that would have been Julian’s 10th birthday. This was not a coincidence, this was Julian saying, “It’s my 10th birthday, and I’ve arranged a special dinner for you to celebrate!”

Sometimes Julian sends Earth Angels to protect my family. For example, when my parents were on a train in Russia, they were discussing their plans for getting to their hotel after disembarking at their station. There weren’t many English speakers on that train, but it turns out there was one in earshot. Not only was she listening to their conversation, she was the type of kind person who approached them and explained that their train wouldn’t be stopping at that station on that particular day. Not only did she help them figure out an alternate plan, she negotiated directly with the cab driver to make sure they paid a fair price for their journey. AND she stopped by the hotel the next day to make sure they arrived safely. This wasn’t just random. This was Julian saying, “I’m always watching over you. I see that you’re vulnerable right now. The plan you made can not happen today. I’m sending an Earth Angel to help you.”

My whole family has these experiences. Sometimes we share them with each other, sometimes we keep them to ourselves. But what we all know for sure is that Julian is not gone. He is obviously “there” in Heaven or whatever label we chose to use, but he is also very much HERE with us, all the time. And he confirms that message frequently, when we’re paying attention.

He is the puffy white clouds reflected in a mirror-like lake. The line between “down here” and “up there” becomes almost imperceptible. His spirit is communicating directly with us, just like the beauty of the sky is literally visible here on Earth. He is there AND here.

img_0363p.s. This past year I started making art again after many years. I created an artwork based on this visual metaphor, and it was selected to be included in a show called Spirit: Made Here in downtown Minneapolis. They even interviewed me and made a video about my work. The inspiration for this work of art, as well as the acceptance into the show, was yet another gift from Julian.

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2017 in Angelversaries, year 6

 

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Forgiving the unforgivable.

03 Mar

J-fiveIf you’ve ever had a four-year-old in your life, you know how important the fifth birthday is. The turning point from four to five is more than just a number. It’s a whole hand. It’s half way to double digits. It’s a big deal. 

Today is Julian‘s fifth Angelversary. He’s been gone a whole hand of years. And in those years, I’ve changed a lot. Things that were important to me before seem silly to me now. Things that I spend a lot of time thinking about now never crossed my mind back then.

My grief journey has taken me on many twists and turns over the past five years. And today, if I were to pick one word to describe how I feel, it is “peaceful.” It goes without saying that I would do anything to have Julian alive and healthy again. But that is not an option, and I’m at peace with that.

After five years, I now know that forgiveness is a huge part of healing. It would be easy to rage against the fact that my son got cancer. I could be filled with anger that he got an infection that his body couldn’t fight. I could hold on to resentment that the doctors couldn’t fight it either. But I don’t.

Instead, I choose to forgive the unforgivable. I forgive the doctors for failing to locate and destroy the infection in time. I forgive the infection for invading his vulnerable body in the first place. I forgive the leukemia treatment protocol that destroyed his ability to fight the infection. I forgive the cancer for taking up residence in his blood. I forgive his human body for failing to keep his soul alive.

And perhaps most importantly, I forgive my own soul for choosing this path. What I know for sure is that grieving and healing are journeys of the soul. Just like life itself is a journey of the soul. We attend this Earth School, and we do our best with the curriculum we signed up for… and I do believe we signed up for this.

Radical Forgiveness by Colin Tipping sums up my beliefs perfectly:

“The World of Humanity is a spiritual classroom, and life is the curriculum. Our lessons are the events that happen in life. The objective is to awaken to the truth of who we are and return home.”

This powerful book goes on to confirm,

“Life is not random. It provides for the purposeful unfoldment of our own divine plan, with opportunities to make choices and decisions in every moment…. At the soul level, we get precisely what we need in our lives for our spiritual growth. How we judge what we get determines whether we experience life as painful or joyful.”

Five years ago, I felt nothing but pain. And yet, as the earliest posts on this blog indicate, I felt an instinctual pull toward finding joy again. I wouldn’t ever have imagined that forgiveness would be such a significant part of this process. And I’m grateful for the journey that led me here.

And my to my sweet angel Julian, I say: Thank you for everything you’ve taught me. Thank you for being my my guardian angel and my soul companion. High five, little one. We’re halfway to double digits on this divine plan.

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2016 in Angelversaries, year 5

 

The beauty of life (and loss).

03 Mar

Today marks four years since my sweet Julian completed his assignment here on Earth, and transcended to whatever comes next. He died just before his fourth birthday, so that means he has now been gone longer than he was here.

But today I don’t want to dwell on the loss. Instead, I want to share perhaps the most beautiful video I have ever seen. I invite you to watch it, and join me in honoring Julian’s memory with the beauty in this journey we call life:

Because this is the four-year mark, I’ll share four parts of the lyrics that are significant — and True-with-a-capital-T — to me:

1. Our souls are here on assignment.

We’re on assignment.
Bodies on consignment.
Before Julian died, I didn’t spend much time thinking about where our souls came from, why we’re here, or where we go next. Now, there’s no doubt in my mind that our souls here to learn something specific. Our physical bodies in this lifetime are “on consignment.” When our assignment is complete, we have no more need for this body, and we transcend to what’s next. Julian completed his assignment four years ago. I (hopefully) still have many years to go before my soul’s assignment is complete, but I know that a big part of it is to learn how to survive the loss of a child. I can chose to resist this, or I can choose to accept it. I wish it were different, but I accept it.

2. We’re here to make a difference.

…in this existence,
I’ll stay persistent.
I’ll make a difference,
and I will have lived it.

Julian never even reached his fourth birthday, but he made a huge difference in the world. We all can take inspiration from his memory and ask ourselves, what difference are we making? Are we persistent? When our time is up, will we have really lived it?

3. Our inner guide will help us survive loss.

I cry for the creatures who get left behind;
everything will change in a blink of an eye.
And if you wish to survive,
you will find the guide inside.

We all experience loss. What happens next, and whether we survive it or not, is up to us. If we wish to survive — and some people don’t — we must find that survival instinct within ourselves. Our inner guide is waiting to be found.

4. We are privileged to have the responsibility of this lifetime.
Aloha, Aloha Ke Akua, Ke Akua,
Aloha, Aloha, Kuleana, Kuleana.

The literal translation of Aloha Ke Akua means “God is Love,” and Kuleana is defined as “the privilege of responsibility.” This message is a beautiful reminder that life is a gift; it is our honor and privilege to live our best life regardless of the ups and downs.

On this day, I give thanks for the years I had with Julian. Even on the days I want to rage against my loss, I accept it as part of my soul’s assignment. I recognize it as my privilege and my responsibility to carry his memory forward as I do my best to make a difference in this life.
 
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Posted by on March 3, 2015 in Angelversaries, year 4

 

The motivation of death.

24 Aug

Justin-JohnsonBefore my son died, I had attended exactly four funerals: three were elderly grandparents, and one was a family friend who had fought a long battle with disease. Julian’s Celebration of Life was funeral number five. And last week, I attended funeral number six.

On August 13, 2014, a young father of four died in a car accident. His children attend my ten-year-old’s school, and our whole community was devastated. Almost immediately, a parent task force sprang into action to support the Johnson family.

Everyone was encouraged to attend the funeral, but my immediate response to that request was NO WAY. I told myself, everyone will understand. As if the death of my son excused me from supporting others in their grief.

What I didn’t anticipate is that my 10YO son absolutely, positively wanted to go to the funeral. “Are you sure?” I kept asking him. “It will probably bring up some painful memories for you,” I warned.

“Mom, I want to support my friends. They just lost their dad. And I know what it feels like to lose someone you love so much,” he said. Of course my son would have this perspective. For him, his own potential for pain was irrelevant compared to the potential to help others.

Still, the voice in my head said, I’m just not ready. But then, I realized the meaninglessness of that thought. Is anyone ever really “ready” to attend a funeral? No. Definitely not. So last Thursday, my son and I entered the packed church to support the Johnson family — and stare death in the face for the first time in three and a half years.

There were some painful moments, for sure. I remembered what it felt like to sit in that front row. I imagined the journey that the members of the Johnson family are just beginning. I wondered how I had forgotten to put tissues in my purse.

But more importantly, I marveled at the strength of the human spirit. We experience profound pain, and then… life goes on. Most of us, at our core, are resilient. Life is not supposed to be easy. In fact, I believe, it is supposed to be hard. This is Earth School, after all. Our souls are here to learn.

The funeral experience last Thursday — the opportunity to stare death in the face again — reminded me of the central theme of this blog that I started more than three years ago: When we are faced with tragedy, what do we choose to do? Do we shut down, close up, turn off? Or do we live bigger, love harder, create more?

In a beautiful short film called Existential Bummer, filmmaker Jason Silva observes that sometimes love makes us simultaneously happy *and* melancholy, nostalgic for what we have yet to lose. I think the same concept is reversely true of death: it can make us sad *and* inspired, motivated to maximize our life:

(apologies in advance for the advertisement you might see before the film starts)

Death challenges us, reminding us that entropy is inevitable. Death asks, what will you do NOW? I, for one, agree with Jason Silva when he suggests that we must use entropy to motivate us to extend every moment forever (or at least try):

“Perhaps the biggest existential bummer of all is entropy…. Sometimes I feel nostalgic over something I haven’t lost yet, because I see its transience.

And so how does one respond to this? Do we love harder? Do we squeeze tighter? Or do we embrace to the Buddhist creed of no attachment? Do we pretend not to care that everything and everyone we know is going to be take away from us?

I don’t know if I can accept that. I think I more side with the Dylan Thomas quote that says, ‘I will not go quietly into that good night, but instead rage against the dying of the light.’

I think that we defy entropy and impermanence with our films and our poems. I think we hold onto each other a little harder and say, ‘I will NOT let go. I do NOT accept the ephemeral nature of this moment. I’m going to extend it forever… or at least I’m going to try.'”

It is impossible to avoid tragedy in our lives. No amount of precaution, protection, or prayer will stop death from coming for us and our loved ones when our time is up. But until then, we can make a choice to attend that funeral, to feel that pain, to see the entropy all around us… and be MOTIVATED by it. 

That is my wish for myself, for the Johnson family, and for all humankind studying bravely in this Earth School.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2014 in year 4

 

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