One always knows that death awaits us all. We see death around us, we hear about the deaths of others, beloved pets even die when we are children, and we have to cope with that. But it isn't until one starts to feel death in one's own body that it becomes a real "thing." Welcome to the existential crisis.
If you don't have a religious philosophy in place when the existential crisis hits, God save you, because it is easy for me to imagine the emotional crisis that would likely ensue.
When I was very young, I imagined that I would die peacefully in my sleep at a very advanced age, hopefully after saying goodbye to scores of loved ones, tidying up my affairs, and giving away the heirlooms.
Once I had discovered meditation and spiritual life in my late 20's, my death plans changed to a more spiritual version. Gradually, I grew to imagine I would give sage advice to my meditation students during the day, and at night I would work on aligning all my thoughts with the movement of the Divine. With the pinpoint concentration that comes of decades of meditation practice, I would try to ready myself to catch a ride on that spiritual wave, for what I imagined would be the experience of union with the divine at the end of it all.
Well, it is all very embarrassing now that the reality of impending death has begun to creep through the body, because there are many things I didn't anticipate. One doesn't foresee how unattractive it can be.
You don't envision the humiliation of your eyelashes suddenly migrating to arbitrary spots on one's chin - and growing there like strong little trees that make your eyes water when you pluck them out. Nor do you anticipate a giant random "sun spot" browning a swathe of skin on your cheek. One never thinks that our most constant companion will be crippling pain, and the barely adequate little morphine pills that give you terrible constipation for the first time in your life.
I was horrified about having to have a molar pulled out but lacking the resources to replace it, leaving the teeth on the top row to float around, willy nilly, while my gap-toothed smile suffered for it. (One does not want to frighten the children!) Dental floss became my constant companion after the removal of that big molar. I keep a bag of those little floss picks near the recliner, with kleenex, and a tiny little pink dust bin to throw them away. The detritus of this process is far from glamorous because it is a reminder of where we are all going, cute pink dust bin or not.
At first, I made fun of the cane I had to use to compensate for the knees that had been destroyed by inherited arthritis, and a lifetime of hiking, horseback riding, and walking. The scoliosis I was born with didn't help any of that. So I got a cane that was decorated with pink roses and made fun of having to use one - gamely declaring that I wasn't going to let it get me down and would just turn lemons into lemonade by using remarkably decorated canes. I would be that artistic and somewhat wacky nun with the canes and the sun hats
When I graduated from sporting a flashy little number covered with roses, to a commodious walker complete with padded seat, and finally to an electric scooter, all pretext of being that cool old lady nun vanished. All anyone sees is someone who is aging "badly" by not taking any measures to ameliorate the telltale signs - such as that ever widening "sun spot" that is known, more commonly, as an "age spot."
If I still lived in Los Angeles, people would be bugging me to go to the dermatologist to have the sun spot bleached and sloughed off, to have a dental implant to replace the missing tooth, etc.
A few weeks ago, I suddenly noticed the appearance of a weird dark spot on my scalp, of a bizarre, irregular shape, like a mole that has been blasted to bits - about the size of a quarter. Hoping it was a sun spot, but instinctively knowing it was not, I arranged for it to be biopsied and, sure enough, it came back as suspicious for melanoma cancer, and I now have an appointment at the cancer center where they will, no doubt about it, remove it, some skin around and beneath it, and forever destroy my one remaining physical attribute of some beauty - my hair.
We are not supposed to care about our physical selves, as nuns. Devoting oneself to spiritual life is supposed to eliminate considerations like that. But it isn't the loss of beauty that is the problem for me. Instead, it is the reminder of approaching death, on my part, which is not entirely devoid of aversion for me. I am not so "other worldly" that I am sanguine about passing away in the near future.
As a young nun I read about how several world religions recommend meditating upon death - and I had no problem with that. Death is easy. It is dying that is hard.
While I am looking forward to meeting my maker, I would still rather do it much later. I really would not mind living another 60 years because it is going to take me that long to do all the creative projects I have in mind.
We are not two-dimensional people, and the commitment to living a life for God doesn't preclude all worldly pursuits (though some people justify their lack of imagination and paucity of talents with that excuse that makes them look ever so holy!) But few people are so lacking in interests! As an artist and a writer, I have parallel lives to that of my life as a nun and meditation teacher - especially now that we are all hunkered down in our bunkers, trying to avoid death by Covid19. I am writing a novel, some song lyrics and various types of poetry. I have no less than 3 series of acrylic paintings in the queue. I even love to make prayer beads, rosaries and "healing" necklaces using semi-precious natural stones.
On top of all this is a love of study and of learning on various topics. I am a world-class genealogist with more than 40 years experience, a family tree of more than 75,000 people, and a handful of distant cousins I am helping with THEIR trees. Having played the piano, the guitar and the flute in the past, I am now teaching myself the guitalele. I have even contemplated learning at least one foreign language, but God only knows when I would find the time for it or on whom I would practice, since I am fascinated with the Welsh language of my beloved Grammy's ancestors, and there is nary a Welsh speaker in sight!
Other humans, likewise uncomfortable with reminders of death, find the reminders of it writ large on the faces of old people to be repellant, most of the time. This is one of the reasons why older folks are so often the victims of hate crimes - that, and the fact that they are less able to defend themselves, while people who commit hate crimes are vile bullies with cowardly hearts.
Keeping up an image of some semblance of health and vigor is essential to survival. We need to all pretend, to some extent, that we will live forever, otherwise our impending doom is all we'd think about and prepare for. I do not think that our entire lives are meant to be spent in this fashion because, if we were all created by a benign and loving creator, as I believe, then it would be uncharacteristic of Him to arrange it in such a way.
Just think how boring and dismal it would be to have only tragedies to watch on television. I often imagine that the Lord watches us as we watch television, and that His joy thrills to our our joy, etc. It is hard to be joyful unless we put death on the back burner until and unless we meet it in a dark hallway in the middle of the night, on our way to the bathroom or the kitchen, pursuing some need or want.
Yes, the reality of dying is typically a long, drawn-out affair. If you are lucky enough to make it past middle age, it announces itself long before it is actually knocking on your front door. I remember now, with some embarrassment, a much younger me who announced that I wouldn't be complaining about old age and that I intended to "grow old gracefully," but what did I knew? I'd never seen anyone die. .Heck, I barely knew anyone who died at all! There isn't much that is graceful about what is going on over here. My apartment is in chaos, and instead of a gathering of students and loved ones around my bed, There is a viral pandemic stalking the land, and all the teaching is on the phone or on Facebook. I am falling asleep in my reclining chair, wearing the same clothes I was wearing during the day. At least, that's how last night turned out - and who am I kidding? Many nights end that way. Thank God no one is here to witness the snoring I feel sure must be part of that lovely tableaux!
Things are bound to improve after I get my second Covid vaccination next week. I'll feel more comfortable about having an attendant come to my house, but I don't take it for granted that someone will be available during this wickedly difficult era, and the mess has piled up around me for the last year, so much that it will take some time before "graceful" is possible!
It is my guess that the spiritual equivalent of a juggling act has to be conducted throughout each of our lives. We must plan for death but thumb our noses at it at the same time, by living for the natural beauty of life - a beauty rendered more precious and gorgeous by the temporary nature of it all.
Now I leave you for the pursuit.
God bless us all.
Sannyasini Kaliprana
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