I have not thought of my life as one of an experience of “not dying.” I sometimes joke with my husband that he has given God plenty of opportunities to kill him, and he is still here. He must not be done with him yet. Have I the same privilege? In reading Maggie O’Farrell’s new memoir, I am I am I am: Seventeen Brushes with Death, that is the understanding that I have. I have not died yet. I am not done.
I am fortunate–I can truly say that–that I have not experienced any near-death events. I suppose my brushes with death are more figurative. They are there.
There is nothing unique or special in a near-death experience. They are not rare; everyone, I would venture, has had them, at one time or another, perhaps without even realising it. The brush of a van too close to your bicycle, the tired medic who realises that a dosage ought to be checked one final time, the driver who has drunk too much and is reluctantly persuaded to relinquish the car keys, the train missed after sleeping through an alarm, the aeroplane not caught, the virus never inhaled, the assailant never encountered, the path not taken. We are, all of us, wandering about in a state of oblivion, borrowing our time, seizing our days, escaping our fates, slipping through loopholes, unaware of when the axe may fall.” (pg 31-32)
I could be trite and say that the lessons I have learned from not dying are, like:
- live everyday as if it is your last
- be grateful for what you have
- enjoy the journey
But, I don’t live my life like that, all the time (I am grateful for a close parking spot during Christmas shopping).
What I do know is this:
- Life does go on.
In the moment, something can loom large and I don’t see a way out of its shadow. There is and I do. And, the angst I felt finding a boyfriend in bed with someone else when I was 25, doesn’t even register now that I am 55. - Small moments need to be savoured.
Most days my family rolls their eyes when I present one more sunrise picture from the bridge. Each sunrise is special even as I am anticipating the next one, and even if it does happen everyday. - Time passes differently for everyone.
Time passes in a flash for my husband. Thirty doesn’t seem that long ago for him and eighty doesn’t seem so far away. Time stretches languidly in both directions for me. I like that I feel like life saunters. Our two perspectives means that we treat time differently, and I haven’t been able to teach my husband to flip to my way of viewing time. Maybe I don’t need to. - Healthy is better than wealthy.
There is joy in taking care of yourself and others. Preparing a delicious meal or relishing a deer stretch in yoga are simple pleasures that help me to feel life deeply. - Nurture family altruism.
I was helping my daughter with her philosophy homework reading an article by Steven Pinker about altruism and social contract. He referred to nepotistic altruism as the act of doing something good so that our genes survive. I don’t think I would reduce what I do with and for my family down to such scientific rational. And I would do anything to help my genes survive (even read Plato and Hume). Perhaps that is the evolutionary argument for love. Families are like a petri dish for the world. We learn about ourselves and how to treat others in each of our family experiments. As it is in the microcosm, so it is in the macrocosm.
I have had the blessed fortune not to die. I must ensure that I live.
I consider myself steeped in luck, in good fortune… I have been showered with shamrocks, my pockets filled with rabbits feet, found the crock of gold at the end of every rainbow. I could not have asked for more from life, to have been spared with might have been. (page 241)