Tombstone Rhetoric

Morbid title? Yes, I think so, but fits my mood like a pair of jeggings. Let's face it, we're all inevitably dead. It can happen anytime, in any manner, and is infrequently scripted. How many people get to say their goodbyes, tie up their loose ends, end on their own terms? And how many slip sudden and accidental-like into the void? The odds were never in our favor. It follows then, that any moment, any action could be my last. And therefore I have a responsibility to those moments, every drop of life, so that I am remembered as I would want to be, and honored with the best of intentions. For, in life, there is a strong wish to be celebrated and in death this wish does not diminish, perhaps not by me, but by those we entrust with our heart-memoirs. Sorrowed is he that is celebrated as an absence, whose life-actions invited joy at his passing, and not mourning.

What to make of these existential and obvious truths? A kind of wild hope and nervous dread. Tomorrow's uncertainty necessitates a certain moral code. If I live such that each moment, vibrant or mundane, could be the penultimate moment, I would want those moments to be largely righteous, good, or at least neutral. If, to the best of my ability, I spend as much of my life in acceptance, in equanimity, in accordance with my values, then I can worry less about death's timing. My hope is to shift honorable death-odds in my favor. Of course, given the nature of my days, I am quite likely to pass in my sleep or sadly, on the can. At least there is some shred of honor in doing what one must. However, time spent in arguments, angers, jealousies, pettiness, depravity would be playing constantly against the house, because the card-house of life could crumple from the slightest breeze. A showing of hands for those who wish their last moments to be frozen road rage, plotting revenge for a slight, sloven lacklustre, or jealously coveting another's possessions. The greater the rage, the more likely the regret, and the greater the dread.

Not only are the momentary foibles real and motivating, but the total calculus of one's life should be entertained. For, as buddhists are fond of expressing, what is life but a series of moments? The past is forever done, the future yet to come. Adding up a multitude of Presents eventually allows one to divine patterns of a life lived. To put watercolors to paper and form contours, shadings, meanings of an existence. To the extent that a life is bright, vibrant, dripping with saturation, we can say that it was a fulsome and beautiful work of art, worthy of framing and admiring. And as much as a life fell to shadow, to greys and achromaticity, there will be a tiresome, foul, and/or unremarkable portrait. It is in us to choose our color palette.

In psychology there is an exercise meant to distill your values, simply and directly. One is asked "what would you like your tombstone to say?" With the eventual implication that no matter what is said, a life has to be lived in that direction for one's prophecy to bear fruit. I'm going to play this game with some caveats. There should be a word limit, perhaps five sentences. Also, there will be a statement about something I did within the preceding day that I would have been proud to admit. Here goes:

Samuel Siah, 1984-present, died gazing at his beloved

Here lies a man who lived for others
Family and friends were everything
such that no joy was unshared, no despair was lonesome, and no need too burdensome
Immortal shall he remain in the hearts that he touched

It's a worthwhile exercise, I suggest you give it a shot, either here or elsewhere. Happy painting.