Living to die

I've been thinking about death. A lot.

We all know that we are going to die, but if I could show you a picture of you lying in your casket, thoughts of your inevitable demise might become more than vague projections into your future.

Memento Mori translates from Latin to “Remember death.”

Reminding ourselves of our own mortality does not mean that we are morbidly fascinated with death, but to me, doing so displays a sober reverence for life. I use skull imagery liberally in my work. The skull does not reveal the race, gender, political affiliation, nor status of the individual who once had their skin wrapped around and their brains neatly housed inside of it. It is the great equalizer.

It represents all of humanity. I can’t think of any other symbol that can do this.

I’m in my sixties now. My maternal grandfather died at 65, and the rest did not make it to 80. I’m not planning or hoping to drop dead anytime soon and I don’t fear death, but I want to die on my own terms. I have been blessed with a wonderful life. I get to make pictures for a living! I thank God every day for this. I am fairly certain that most of my ancestors lived hard lives working jobs that they hated. My great-grandfather was a longshoreman, my grandfather was a butcher. They worked. Hard.

I try and honor their suffering by trying not to be lazy and by putting my heart and soul into my work. It is the least I can do with the gifts that my forebears have bestowed upon me. I imagine they dreamed that their struggles would create conditions that would someday benefit their descendants. I want the same for my son and his offspring.

Most of my very close, lifelong friends did not make it to 60. Part of me died with them. I cherish the ones who are left, but I am not whole without the lost. Our shared memories lack certainty now that we are denied the ability to recount the stories over a beer. Did it all really happen?

My finacé had a close brush with death fifteen months ago. A vibrantly healthy and happy 53 year old woman was lying in bed next to me watching television one minute and was facing death the next in a completely unexpected moment of horror. She should have died that night, but God had other plans. Words cannot express how grateful I am to have continued time with her and that I was there to help her that awful night. Saving her life is the best thing I have ever done with mine. OK, the emergency medics deserve the real credit, but she would not be here if she lived alone. Her dog was smart, but I don’t she could have called 911.

Our next breath is not guaranteed. Hold every moment like a priceless artifact. Because that is what they are.