Death - 068
The Well
My mom loved sitting in the sun. She'd lather up in oil and bronzer, but never sunscreen. She always had a tan– like super dark question-her-race tan. And bright blonde hair. She would borrow clothes from my cousins, 30 years her junior. She was always trying to look young.
I'm thinking about my mom a lot this month.
Mostly because tomorrow is actually the one year anniversary of her death.
And that contrast– the reality that we will all die and the desire to "cheat death"– is something I want to explore this month.
This last year especially, I've been confronting mortality. The finite timeline of our lives. We all try to avoid that fact to some degree. Skincare, hair dyes, keeping up with trends and technology, dieting. Much of it is in service of staying young. Or feeling young. Or relevant.
We fear death. Avoid conversations and thinking about it. And only because it's excluded, death becomes our enemy.
I recently heard the idea of grief after death as a deep, dark well. So many of us are afraid to get near the well for fear that we might fall in and never be able to pull ourselves out. But once we approach it, when we are willing to face it, we see that it is not so scary. We realize that it's actually a source of healing; and ironically, a source of life.
Let's go on a little journey together today and turn a common enemy into an unexpected friend.
I want to talk about death this month in a way that feels cathartic for me and, in a way, invites you a little closer to the well.
Come closer.
Legacy
I went to college in LA.
Being at a prominent film and art school, most students in one way or another, were trying to become famous. The theatre school would pave the way to Broadway, the film school to Hollywood, the engineering school to Silicon Valley, the music school to Carnegie Hall.
The constant name-dropping of alumni practically made it seem like all we had to do was show up, graduate, and we’d be discovered. It also made one thing clear:
our legacy is our work.
This deeply-ingrained belief directly informed my work habits, values, and identity. My friends too. We filled weekends with side hustles. Started our own clubs. Worked on two or three projects outside of school and then worked to build a portfolio that would not only get us in the door, but make us famous.
But lately, I've been thinking... they probably won't.
For nearly every one of us, our legacy won't be a book. Or movie. Or an invention.
My legacy is not that ad campaign that got quoted for a few months and written up and won an award or two and parodied on the tonight show... maybe at one point I thought so. But right now, I deeply hope that it's not.
Legacy is not about what we will create.
Legacy is what we have been creating.
What I will be remembered for is consistency of action over time. It's my character. How I choose to spend my time. With whom. And how I make them feel.
When I die, I will be remembered for how I showed up every day.
I've thought about it a lot and I've even tried to define. I hope to be remembered as a doting, present, and playful father. A giving and compassionate partner. A thoughtful friend. An inspired artist who was always writing and making things that helped people better understand themselves and see the world in a new way. (That's literally why I'm sending you this email.)
I've defined it. So now I live in its integrity.
But whether you define it for yourself or not, you're already on its path. You're already building the way people will remember you. You're showing up and making choices and making people feel a certain way.
It's up to you if you want to live that legacy or change it.
Odd One Out paper cutout by Caleb Cole
Granting Grace
Most of us have no idea how to navigate loss.
And most people don't know how to support someone through that loss.
But in my own grief process, the idea of "grace" keeps coming back up. It first came into my awareness through the book "Grief is Love."
First, the grace to others when they don't support us the way we want them to.
Then, the grace we require from others as we move through grief and regularly disappoint those around us.
And finally, the grace toward ourselves as we work to rebuild and reimagine our lives after loss.
Grace is forgiveness and acceptance in one elegant word.
As you are unsure about how to respond to my thoughts and experience of grief...
As you navigate your own uncertain path of loss and love in life...
As you reflect on the struggle, loneliness, and growth...
May you go out into the world today with grace.
"The faster you’re moving the more you’re in fear. The more you’re in fear, the more you’re thinking about yourself. The more you’re thinking about yourself, the less compassion and kindness you have for others.” Clip from"Emily talks to" reel by Emily Petros
Are You Alive?
Long before my mom died, there were conversations in our house about my parents' end of life wishes.
Lots of nuance went into these conversations:
Part time caregivers are fine.
Being bed-bound is not.
They need to be able to carry a meaningful conversation.
Feed themselves. And wash themselves.
Travel enough to see their grandkids.
No diapers.
When it comes to defining a quality of life, an interesting question comes up:
what does it mean to feel alive?
Because at the root of it is the idea that without these things, they'd rather be dead.
Or, more simply put, they wouldn't feel alive.
What makes YOU feel alive?
Travel? Deep conversation? Making new friends? Working?
Exercise? Cooking? Playing music? Napping? Drugs?
Being with family? Sex? Being outside? Writing? Making art?
Many of us able-bodied. Healthy. Youthful.
We are not zombies. We are not the walking dead.
We can choose to spend our lives noticing the magic of our moments.
We can do the things that make us feel alive.
We can choose life.
The Opposite of Hope
I have a friend whose father died of a sudden heart attack in the Summer of 2020. With the pandemic still in full force, there was no public funeral. No shiva. No gathering or shared meals.
Just a call. Dad died. Anguish floods in without relief.
My aunt, on the other hand, had brain cancer. For 5 years she suffered and fought. Experimental treatments and pokes and prods and tests over literally thousands of hospital visits. Her last 5 months she was in a bed, barely cognizant.
When she died, the profound sadness was also met with relief.
Surprise brings heightened emotions.
When you know what to expect, it can hurt less.
Sometimes not at all.
Here's a truth I don't like agreeing with:
Hope can make things worse.
Hope can feel good. Hope gives us energy. It motivates us.
When the people we love get closer to dying, we clutch onto hope.
Maybe today's the day they'll recover. What if today they break through? Wake up? Get back?
Hope is the feeling of optimistic expectation that a particular thing will happen.
But when that expectation cannot be met, we feel empty. Surprised at the turn.
It's why we cry. It's why grief is so heavy.
We have no motivation.
Our hope withers.
Here's the upside of that truth:
When we know what's coming, we don't need hope.
We prepare. We process. We accept reality.
Each of us will have a story of how we die.
Each of our parents will have a story, too.
When we remind ourselves of that– when we fully accept our limited life–we don't wish for a better, easier, tomorrow. We don't rely on hope for the future.
We make the most out of our time today.
____
Thank you for facing a challenging topic and sticking with it.
I'm grateful you are alive today. And grateful for your time spent with me.
I hope to have you back next month.
Refrigeyalater,
Jake
"Make Believe Damien Hirst For The Love Of God" sculpture by Jim Riswold
Elegies and Eulogies
Almost Everything by Anne Lamott
"The Well of Grief" poem by David Whyte
Grief is Love by Marisa Renee Lee
The Road to Character by David Brooks
Saving Time by Jenny Odell
99% Invisible City by Roman Mars
If you're curious, here's the eulogy I delivered last year at my mom's funeral.
Memento mori - "remember, you will die."
Boo! Me again.
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The Email Refrigerator is a monthly delivery of essays, poetry, imagery, and thoughts, written and curated by Jake Kahana. Why a refrigerator? Well, it's where we look for snacks, a little freshness, and where we hang the latest, greatest work. And besides, "newsletter" sounds like spam.