How Death Can Teach Us How To Live.

“I wish none of this had happened.”

“So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

J.R.R Tolkien

Saturday, October 3rd, will mark the ten year anniversary of my father’s death.

He would have been 65 today, a grandfather, and a retiree; casually enjoying his golden years in the presence of his family. Or perhaps even more likely, drinking Pilsners on a golf course somewhere.

I often wonder what type of grandfather he would have been. I wonder how he would feel about the world we live in now. I wonder what sort of advice he would have given me when I needed it the most. And I wonder if he would still be able to beat me at golf. I wonder so many things. You can do a lot of wondering in ten years.

That’s what hurts the most, that I’ll have to keep wondering.

That’s also one of the primary reasons that I started this blog. It’s why I wanted to leave a part of myself behind for my future children. I want them to be able to know my character, what I believe, how I think; things that only I could tell them, and things that I feel like I missed out on.

I was twenty-one years old when my father died. Too dumb, young, and immature to truly appreciate who he was, and as a consequence, we weren’t very close. But I feel like it was precisely because we weren’t close, that I was able to learn so much from him in the end.

There comes a time in most people’s relationships with their parents when they finally discover the all-too-human traits of their once imagined, all-knowing, and omnipotent benefactors; when they realize their parents don’t have all the answers to everything; that they make mistakes, have weaknesses, and make bad decisions.

Sadly, I’m sure this happens much too early for some. It might be, for example, that circumstances require that a child need to mature quickly in order to pick up the slack of negligent or absent parents. Or conversely, a parent might be too submissive or friendly with their children, shifting the power dynamic, and thereby resulting in the child’s subordination or arrested development.

Thankfully, I was privileged enough to have avoided experiencing either scenario. True, I might not have had the friendship that some people have with their fathers, but in return, my ignorance stayed intact. In my mind, my father remained my father. Unblemished and incorruptible.

As a result, our somewhat distant relationship had only allowed me to see his character from afar. But what I did see of him was morally upright and commendable. It was his patience and willingness to sacrifice for his family that are some of the first things that I associate with his memory. To me, he was the definition of toughness and resilience. Even now, I can only think of a few instances of my entire life where I saw him show any signs of vulnerability.

He was impressively forbearing, but I do remember asking him one afternoon when he was in the hospital if he was scared. It was sobering to hear his reply. It ran contrary to everything that I had imagined him to be up until that point. But I am grateful that he was able to mutter that bit of truth to me. His slow nod had, in its movements, spoken volumes. And the way he said the word: “yeahh,” was almost that of surprise at his own awareness; as if my question had put the idea of fear into his mind for the first time.

I imagine him feeling something like how George Eliot described in Middlemarch.

“Here was a man who now for the first time found himself looking into the eyes of death…When the commonplace “We must all die” transforms itself suddenly into the acute consciousness “I must die– and soon,” then death grapples us, and his fingers are cruel; afterwards, he may come to fold us in his arms as our mother did, and our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be like the first.”

George Eliot

After his death, the amazing things that I was hearing his family and friends say of him, solidified my preexisting belief that his strong and dependable character would be etched into my mind forever.

All the love that I was receiving around me hardened my resolve to do justice to his name; not to be sorry that I didn’t have a father, but to live up to his character and turn their pity into pride. Proud to have known a friend or a brother or a son that was capable enough to pass on wisdom, courage, strength, and independence onto his children. What better legacy could someone hope to leave behind?

I feel now, somewhat controversially, that his death has changed my life for the better. Of course, I miss him terribly, and not a day goes by without my thinking of him, but I’m convinced that his death has taught me some of the most valuable lessons that we can ever learn in life.

One of which is something that the philosopher, Michel De Montaigne had helped me think about.

Montaigne recommended that we should imagine that there is some noble being within us, who is able to observe our innermost thoughts, and in whose presence even the mad would hide their failings.

He says by doing this, we will learn to think clearly and objectively and behave in a more thoughtful and rational manner. The noble being within me has been my father. He both acts as a check to my moral behaviour and has motivated me to honour his name by living in ways that would hopefully inspire others to think in laudable terms of his legacy.

I know some of you might be thinking: “but he was human, he was never as good as you make him out to be”. But I would ask: what good would it do to acknowledge his pitfalls? It’s the same reason Jesus was without sin; people are reluctant to follow in the footsteps of someone as imperfect as themselves.

That’s what being his friend might have changed for me. I might have lost respect for him, thought that I was better than him, or grown to resent him for something. All the things that I’m sure everyone has experienced in a relationship with an equal.

But whether or not he was a sinner or saint makes little difference now. My memory of him is permanently biased in his favour, and because of that, I look to loftier heights for guidance. It reminds me of a quote from Napoleon.

“If you build an army of 100 lions and their leader is a dog, in any fight, the lions will die like a dog. But if you build an army of 100 dogs and their leader is a lion, all dogs will fight like a lion.”

Napoleon

I understand my view might be an uncommon one, but I was happy to discover that my rationalizations were corroborated by the Stoic philosopher, Seneca.

“It is better to conquer our grief than to deceive it. For if it has withdrawn, being merely beguiled by pleasures and preoccupations, it starts up again and from its very respite gains force to savage us. But the grief that has been conquered by reason is calmed for ever. I am not therefore going to prescribe for you those remedies which I know many people have used, that you divert or cheer yourself by a long or pleasant journey abroad, or spend a lot of time carefully going through your accounts and administering your estate, or constantly be involved in some new activity. All those things help only for a short time; they do not cure grief but hinder it. But I would rather end it than distract it.”

Seneca

That’s what I feel like I have accomplished. I have conquered my grief and I am better off because of it. I’m not angry that my father is gone, and I don’t feel sorry for myself. I am appreciative of the opportunity that I was given to turn adversity into advantage. His death has helped me lead a more purposeful life, and to him I am grateful.

“If you admit to having derived great pleasures, your duty is not to complain about what has been taken away but to be thankful for what you have been given…”

Seneca

I am a firm believer in the Stoic principle that there is always some trace of value in all misfortunes.

“Let us too overcome all things, with our reward consisting not in any wreath or garland, not in trumpet-calls for silence for the ceremonial proclamation of our name, but in moral worth, in strength of spirit, in a peace that is won forever once in any contest fortune has been utterly defeated.”

Seneca

Of all the wisdom that the Stoics have taught me, how they think about death has been the most meaningful, and practical. And not just how to deal with grief from the death of loved one, but how to think about our own inevitable visit from death.

Meditating on our mortality is a tool that can help us prioritize our lives and provide us with meaning. The phrase: Momento Mori, which is latin for: “Remember you must die,” has been one of the chief reasons that Stoicism has been such a substantial part of my ideology.

“Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s books each day. The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time.” 

Seneca

Death can offer us perspective. It provides urgency and direction. What else besides death can cause us to be grateful for life at the very mention of the word? And if you’ve read my post on gratitude, you know how impactful a reflection on that subject can be.

“Keep death and exile before your eyes each day, along with everything that seems terrible— by doing so, you’ll never have a base thought nor will you have excessive desire.”

Epictetus

Momento Mori also allows us to let go of trivial things. It is a constant reminder to us of what really matters in life. Dirty dishes in the sink? Do them, but don’t let their presence upset you. Would you want the last thing you ever say to your partner to be a complaint about dirty dishes? If you have a loved one that has died, what kind of bargain would you make to have them back for a single day? Would you diligently do dishes for the next ten years without objection? I know I would. So why do we let small things interfere with our precious little time we have with one another?

The following quote is from the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius’ private journal. It’s interesting to think that he wrote these words for his eyes only, without the intention of making them public.

“Let each thing you would do, say, or intend, be like that of a dying person.”

Marcus Aurelius

Most of us however, avoid thinking about death because of fear. It is much more comfortable and easier to live in ignorance until our day finally comes. But in doing so, we are missing out on some of the most pragmatic wisdom that is available to us. Fortunately, Epicurus can help us think about death in a way that might assuage some of our fears.

“When we exist, death is not; and when death exists, we are not. All sensation and consciousness ends with death and therefore in death there is neither pleasure nor pain. The fear of death arises from the belief that in death, there is awareness.”

Epicurus

Death should also be a reminder to us that it doesn’t matter how long we live, if our lives were of no benefit to anyone. The author John Steinbeck wrote that we should “try to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world”. Arthur Miller said, “Maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.”

Therefore, we should live with death as our moral compass, our final judgment, and the measurement of our worth, because as a wise man once said:

“It is not length of life, it is depth of life.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thanks for reading.