Why don’t we talk about death more often? Have we convinced ourselves that death cannot scale our wall of silence?
As some of you already know, I’ve been spending a lot of my time working on a collection of chapters. It’s big enough to be called a volume but not complete enough to be called a book. In wrestling through a particular portion of the story, I encountered something deep within myself that worried me greatly. Namely, that I was not fully decided on what I thought to be the contents of a full life.
I put that on my list of things to figure out before I die and pressed on to give voice to a particular character’s thoughts on death. The words didn’t come easily. In fact, I’m not sure they’re all in place yet. However, I stumbled across a gorgeous little book written by Adrienne von Speyr called The Mystery Of Death that has proven useful.
Here’s an excerpt from the chapter, Death As A Punishment And An End:
The most compelling consequence of death is not merely separation but a growing limitation of understanding, the breaking off of a dialogue, a rapport, a love which had thought it was wider and bigger. My friend is dead, but this death tears holes in my own existence. Not merely in that my own death comes closer, but more deeply, in that whole context, things I took to be certain and understood are now torn down and taken away.
I love that. Sure, it’s about death and I associate death with a rainbow of pain. But there is also an elegance, a willingness to recognize the crumbling and not despise the crumbles. I hope to provide the same sensibility for my character. Just in shorter sentences. =)
I hadn’t expected to get so much out of this process. A happy surprise. I’m glad for your thoughts.
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