When my atheist engineer grandfather died, my atheist engineer
grandmother leaned over the body in the hospice bed that had contained half a
century of shared life and love, cradled the cranium in which his stubborn and
sensitive mind had dwelt, and whispered into the halogen-lit ether:
“Where did you go, my darling?”
Whatever our beliefs, these sensemaking playthings of the mind,
when the moment of material undoing comes, we — creatures of moment and matter
— simply cannot fathom how something as exquisite as the universe of thought
and feeling inside us can vanish into nothingness.
Even if we understand that dying is the token of our existential
luckiness, even if we understand that we are borrowed stardust,
bound to be returned to the universe that made it — a universe itself slouching
toward nothingness as its stars are slowly burning out their energy to leave a
cold austere darkness of pure spacetime — this understanding blurs into an
anxious disembodied abstraction as the body slouches toward dissolution.
Animated by electrical impulses and temporal interactions of matter, our finite
minds simply cannot grasp a timeless and infinite inanimacy — a void beyond
being.
Even Walt Whitman, who could hold such multitudes of
contradiction, could not grasp the void. “I will make poems of my body and of
mortality,” he vowed as a young man as he reverenced our shared materiality in
his timeless declamation that “every atom belonging to me as good
belongs to you.” It was easy, from the shimmering platform of
his prime, to look forward to becoming “the uncut hair of graves” upon
returning his own atoms to the grassy ground one day.
But then, when that day loomed near as he grew old and infirm,
“the poet of the body and the poet of the soul” suddenly could not fathom the
total disbanding of his atomic selfhood, suddenly came to “laugh at what you
call dissolution.”
And then he did dissolve, leaving us his immortal verses, verses
penned when his particles sang with the electric cohesion of youth and of
health, verses that traced with their fleshy finger the faint contour of an
elemental truth: “What invigorates life invigorates death.”
I wish I could have given my grandmother, and given the dying
Whitman, the infinitely invigorating Mr g: A Novel About the
Creation (public library)
by the poetic physicist Alan Lightman — a
magical-realist serenade to science, coursing with symphonic truth about our
search for meaning, our hunger for beauty, and what makes our tender, transient
lives worth living.
Toward the end of the novel, Mr g watches, with heartache
unknown in the Void predating the existence of universes and of life, an old
woman on her deathbed, the film of her long and painful and beautiful life
unspooling from the reel of memory, leaving her grief-stricken by its terminus,
shuddering with defiant disbelief that this is all.
“How can a creature of substance and mass fathom a thing without
substance or mass?” wonders Mr g as he sorrows watching her succumb to the
very laws he created. “How can a creature who will certainly die have an
understanding of things that will exist forever?”
And then, as a faint smile washes across her face, she does die.
Lightman writes:
“At that moment, there were
3,147,740,103,497,276,498,750,208,327 atoms in her body. Of her total
mass, 63.7 percent was oxygen, 21.0 percent carbon, 10.1 percent hydrogen, 2.6
percent nitrogen, 1.4 percent calcium, 1.1 percent phosphorous, plus a
smattering of the ninety-odd other chemical elements created in stars.
“In
the cremation, her water evaporated. Her carbon and nitrogen combined with
oxygen to make gaseous carbon dioxide and nitrogen dioxide, which floated
skyward and mingled with the air. Most of her calcium and phosphorous baked
into a reddish-brown residue and scattered in soil and in wind.”
But then we see that every atom belonging to her — or, rather,
temporarily borrowed by her — truly does belong to everything and everyone,
just as you and I are now inhaling the same oxygen atoms that once inflated
Walt Whitman’s lungs with the lust for life:
“Released from their temporary confinement, her
atoms slowly spread out and diffused through the atmosphere. In sixty days' time, they could be found in every handful of air on the planet. In one hundred
days, some of her atoms, the vaporous water, had condensed into liquid and
returned to the surface as rain, to be drunk and ingested by animals and
plants. Some of her atoms were absorbed by light-utilizing organisms and
transformed into tissues and tubules and leaves. Some were breathed in by
oxygen creatures, incorporated into organs and bone.”
In a passage evocative of the central sentiment in Ursula K. Le
Guin’s spare, stunning poem “Kinship,” he adds:
“Pregnant women ate animals and plants made of
her atoms. A year later, babies contained some of her atoms… Several years
after her death, millions of children contained some of her atoms. And their
children would contain some of her atoms as well. Their minds contained part of
her mind.
“Will
these millions of children, for generations upon future generations, know that
some of their atoms cycled through this woman? It is not likely. Will they feel
what she felt in her life, will their memories have flickering strokes of her
memories, will they recall that moment long ago when she stood by the window,
guilt ridden and confused, and watched as a bird circled the cistern?
No, it is not possible. Will they have some faint sense of her glimpse of the
Void? No, it is not possible. It is not possible. But I will let them have
their own brief glimpse of the Void, just at the moment they pass from living
to dead, from animate to inanimate, from consciousness to that which has no
consciousness. For a moment, they will understand infinity.
“And
the individual atoms, cycled through her body and then cycled through wind and
water and soil, cycled through generations and generations of living creatures
and minds, will repeat and connect and make a whole out of parts. Although without
memory, they make a memory. Although impermanent, they make a permanence.
Although scattered, they make a totality.”
Here we are, you and me, Walt and Alan, my grandmother who is
and my grandfather who is no more — each of us a trembling totality, made of
particles both absolutely vulnerable and absolutely indestructible, hungering
for absolutes in a universe of relatives,
hungering for permanence in a universe of ceaseless change,
famished for meaning, for beauty, for emblems of existence.
Out of these hungers, out of these contradictions, we make
everything that invigorates life with aliveness: our art and our music, our
poems and our mathematics, our novels and our loves.
From
The Marginalian by Marie Popova
Speaking to Myself and to You by Glen Brown
ReplyDelete(For my eulogist)
Tell them I did not want a church and prayers,
a priest’s hopeful praising
of an invisible deity and illogical immortality,
that I believed what a Pulitzer Prize poet once wrote:
“God knows nothing we don’t know.
We gave Him every word He ever used.”
Tell them I did not want a coffin and flowers either—
that rewind of god-awful dreariness and solemnity,
nor did I want collages or a slide show. Instead,
share a few of my favorite poems
and play some music, preferably performed,
and have lots of raucous laughter.
Let slip that I once kept a childhood charm,
not owing to superstition or religious belief,
but only because the Vatican had
“Eternally released [Christopher’s] duty and sainthood”
when they decided
he was more mythology than reality.
Be sure to tell them how much I loved irony.
Tell them moments are what we are,
that “life is but a day”
and to never “miss out on being alive
in a world where everything is given,
and nothing [is assured].”
But confess to them how I wanted to die
before my wife did, out of fear.
Tell them how I was terrified
of losing a child most of all,
the way some of my dear friends had lost theirs,
and how I worried about the harmful choices
my children sometimes made.
Divulge that dementia was in my family too,
if I had lived long enough
like my grandmother and father,
and how frightened I was about erasing
my identity by cyber crooks,
that it’s best to safeguard our money,
as long as “our heart is spent.”
Now, tell them how much I loved teaching
and it is through music, poetry
and philosophy…that show us how to be.
Tell them how much I loved to sing
and play Lightfoot and Young… on my guitars,
and to listen to Chopin, Mozart and Bach,
and how I loved the blues, and jazz—
when it’s bluesy—and reading
Dunn, Hoagland and Djanikian,
Hume and Camus….
Remind them how much I savored
my books, handguns, and Lexuses
(As much as I craved dark chocolate)
and saving unsullied money—
things left behind to prove
this dead collector lived comfortably.
And don’t forget to tell them how much
I loved caramel apples and apple fritters…
and, of course, my mother,
but not America’s hegemony,
bigotry and hypocrisy.
Proclaim how much I loved my tabbies too,
my dearest friends and family,
and my beautiful selfless wife, Marilyn—
“Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!”
And that nights filled with stars,
my mother’s Calabrian cooking
and sewing machine’s hum,
my baseball glove’s oily perfume
and the spring’s night air,
bright autumn days, the crow’s cawing,
the wind’s homily swishing through trees,
wind chimes and crunching through leaves
were warm memories of my childhood heart.
At long last, tell them it is old age
who arrives unannounced one day,
emptying its suitcase of inflictions.
And death is the final costume we will all wear
and “nowhere but where it will occur”
and is not mine to keep,
because it will belong to you someday.
After all, spin a short yarn,
tell them I said something
unforgettable before I died,
but that you have since forgotten,
though you think I might have whispered
Beethoven’s last words:
“Plaudite, amici, comoedia finita est”—
Applaud, my friends, for the comedy is finally over—
from my other poem about dying
and my wish to leave an éclat to posterity.
Or was it something else I might have said?
A cliché perhaps?
Like everything of value in life
is revealed through what we loved.