Can you feel that one moment in time when a breeze burns the leaves into sparkles of light?

Do you see in our sky the protective umbrella that shields us from gamma rays’ threat?

If you breathe, you must know that the past and the future already exists in this now.

We can feel and can see a small part of a world still unfolding to us, but more now,

for we live but a moment compared to the span of light’s high speed trek through time.

With new lens-telescope, what has been and will be now exists in our time, in our now.

So, sniff the breeze and breathe the air, delight in lights dance and earth’s gifts

For now, you live in eternity.

____________________________________________

AJD, 7/16/2022

When my children where very young, they reminded me of my childhood experience of being new in the world. Both I and the world seemed limitless at that age. Like them, I felt my life had endless possibilities in a world without end. But then, when I was thirteen years old, the unimaginable happened. The boy who sat behind me in every class suddenly met his fate. He was not the victim of a gun-toting assassin, like the teenagers in Parkland. His was a different kind of tragedy. The miniaturized plane he flew at the end of a wire came too close to a high voltage line. In an instant, the plane, its guiding wire, and my friend exploded in a blinding light. The electricity lifted him in the air and threw him backwards like a ragdoll. Stunned, I stood motionless, unable to fathom what had just occurred. The charged bolt had punched a muddy hole in the ground where he had been standing in the wet grass. Several feet away, smoke rose from my friend’s hairless and naked body. His smoke-clouded specter, I knew, would haunt my consciousness for the rest of my life, a dark omen of life’s fragility.

Michael Gray amazingly did not die on that day when struck down by fate. The electricity that burned through him had damaged every organ in his body, except for his brain. The only hair remaining on his body was on his head which escaped the current that raced down his arm, through his body and into the moist ground at his feet. For several days, he remained conscious in a hospital bed as his parents stood over him and his life slipped slowly away. The only words he uttered were to comfort those at his bedside. Meanwhile, I sought succor at the foot of a crucifix in silent prayer. But I knew there was no hope for Michael’s survival. And I wondered what hope remained for the rest of us mortals.

If we learn nothing else, it must be that all things change, including life itself in its devolution from birth to death. You, my readers, and I share a similar journey. Some of us engage in an endless exploration of the world and of different ways of experiencing it. But even so preoccupied, we cannot suspend the inevitable. The grim reaper waits for all of us. Some of us attempt to defeat mortality by expanding our presence in the world with our wealth, fame, or power over others. But these vanities end with us in the grave. For our fate is sealed at birth. Once we lose our presence in the world, our only remnants of a life lived are the memories and inspiration we leave in the hearts and minds of others. Michael left his family with words of comfort and love. He left me with a burning desire to do the same with my life. His death inspired me. For our mortality can awaken an urgency to live rightly and touch the hearts and minds of others.

I want to highlight how Michael’s last words were so nakedly authentic. While opioids dulled his senses, his mind was clearly reflective and aware. He was in that out-of-body state that contemplatives so earnestly endeavor to reach. His body gave him no feedback and left him untethered to the physical world. He had to know that he would never recover. No social pressure, ideology, or hormonal reaction dictated his thoughts or words. But when he saw the pain in his parents’ eyes, he was moved to address that pain and alleviate it as best he could.

We all know that life presumes death. Even our planet, born some 4.5 billion years ago, is past the halfway mark of its life expectancy. Since the first human species walked the face of this earth some 2.5 million years ago, all species of homo have become extinct, except for one. The surviving human species evolved about 200,000 years ago, has our identical genetic heritage, and is, of course, homo sapiens. We are the last species of genus homo to face possible extinction. What is most unique about our species is an awareness not only of our personal deaths, but also of the eventual demise of every living organism on the planet, including our own species. We live with an expiration date—both personal and universal. There are at least four commonly predicted ways in which all homo sapiens will become extinct: by the likely elimination of most living organisms in the climatic turmoil resulting from the moon’s inevitable escape of its orbit; by the fiery annihilation of our solar system in the sun’s explosive demise; by evolution, where our species evolves into a genetically different human; or by our own suicidal intent in either internecine wars or the continued devastation of the ecological systems that support our existence. Only these last two possibilities allow us some measure of control over our destiny. We will evolve, perhaps even at our own hands. Genetics may become our new frontier. And we could suppress our primate territorial/tribal instincts and become stewards of our environment instead of competitors fighting over its natural resources. In other words, we could establish world peace, reduce the effects of climate change, and restore ecological equilibrium for all species. Or we might just doom our posterity to that feckless fate we can too easily imagine in sci-fi fantasies.

At this point, you may be expecting another thesis on climate change. But others have written more accurately and eloquently on that topic. Instead, I want to explain why death is the most important impetus to a meaningful life. Now, you may be thinking about carpe diem or the after-life. Certainly, I would never discourage anyone from living each moment to the fullest—much like we all did as children when we experienced everything for the first time. But living a full live does not mean an obsession with entertainment or, worse, a descent into hedonism. Like the rat wildly spinning his wheel for a bite of cheese, the hedonist will always find his reward elusive. Most of us would find the unrelenting pursuit of pleasure unfulfilling of our higher human attributes. And toiling through this life for a promised reward in heaven is a matter of faith—the sister of hope. Your efforts to gain a heavenly reward does not guarantee that heightened experience of fulfillment in the here and now, though they might become its preamble. If you do hope for eternal life, then faith is your succor. But when the last human body dies, life as we now know it ends for homo sapiens or for what we may then call homo ultimus. No human will remain to walk on terra firma, while dreaming of an afterlife. The human experience of life on earth ends with the last man or woman—just as it does for each of us individually.

The death of our species and of our personal lives are facts of existence. But I believe death can redefine hope and a new faith out of the dust of our mortality. Before you think I’m dealing loosely with abstracts, ask yourself what do you really believe in—what motivates your life. If you believe in Jesus as your savior or the God of Abraham or the God of Mohamed, then you no longer believe in the faux immortality of your youth and accept the universal death of all individual humans as a prelude to another dimension. I would not discourage your faith. But I would point out that you could be forgetting what you do or might do in behalf of your children, their children, and so on to the last member of our species. The hope that inspires your faith would not be of or for this world. Beware of a risk inherent in your faith. For human history has shown how such faith can lead to tragic anomalies, like crusades, inquisitions, and the brutal annihilation of apostates. Of course, I am only referring to the hope and faith that exists without love.

If you are a parent, it is likely you hope your children will have a better life than you had. That hope defines what you believe you must do for your children. You may or may not have religious faith to fortify that belief. And this parental belief in your children’s future will not differ from parents with different religious faiths, though ethnic, societal, and dogmatic customs may dictate different actions. The belief in your children’s future is the same. But that belief must be inspired by love, else it will never result in fruitful action. Any child raised dutifully, according to societal norms, but without love, will be insecure. Love both frees the lonely ego and realizes the natural bonds that should unite us. It is the foundation for family, community, and all civic organizations. Why else do we want our communities to be safe? Why else do we expect our government to provide not just for our safety, but for the health, education, and economic opportunities for ourselves and our children. Love, in some measure, is the apotheosis of that childlike enthusiasm we have all shared for life itself. It is also a force that touches and liberates any person with whom we engage or connect without self-interest, prejudice, mere physical attraction, or ulterior motive.

As individuals within an animal species, we share a genetic heritage that determines much of our interaction with the world. As persons within a human biosphere, we likely conform to most of the norms and predilections of the historical fictions advanced by our society, technology, and international relations. But we cannot be truly authentic until we act out of selfless love. It is only then that we realize our power to change the course of humanity. For it is only then that we transcend our mortal frame and live in that spiritual world where only fully realized humans can dwell.

We begin our lives by falling in love with the experience of living. But we grow in maturity by sharing that experience with others and by participating in their experience of living. In that sharing and participation, we discover a dimension of consciousness that expands beyond our personal existence. We touch a reality both within and beyond ourselves. We are not alone, but part of a continuum of existence and of an awareness that extends beyond the individual. For many of us, that awareness may encompass every aspect of life. Perhaps, in a moment of crystallized clarity, we sense the presence of God or of a self-aware universe that may undergird all of quantum physics. In either case, we feel blessed. We feel enveloped by love and our “cup runneth over.”

Humans are not destined to live on this planet forever. And none of us can hope for personal immortality in the flesh. But love is the only power that extends beyond the grave. We may not be truly immortal, but we can share this childlike feeling of immortality with others. That feeling begins with the simple awareness of being alive, grows in every connection we share with others, and persists in the memory of all with whom we so connected in life. Sometimes, death can unlock the mystery of being in the world and expose the ultimate truth. Life’s fragility demands we look beyond ourselves for fulfillment. Our personal life has meaning only insofar as it is buoyed by love for others.

As a final postscript, I should note that Michael died quietly in the arms of his parents. That non-descript student who sat behind me in class became an icon for the power of love. And the manner of his passing became a life-changing event for many of us.

Recently I read an article about the healthful effects of certain wood essential oils, called phytoncides. It seems a simple walk in the woods can elicit an immune reaction that releases anti-cancer proteins. The Japanese call this exercise “forest bathing.” Recent studies have noted other benefits as well: “forest bathing” is believed to boost the immune system, lower blood pressure, reduce stress, improve mood, increase ability to focus—even in children with ADHD, accelerate recovery from surgery or illness, increase energy level, and improve sleep. For anyone who has camped or hiked in a forest, these studies are not surprising. Nevertheless, (bear with me) serious science has been devoted to phytoncides’ effect on cytolytic activity of NK-9wMI cells and the expression pf peroorin, tranzyme A, and granulysin. Now I am not one to discredit serious science, but I do wonder about this obsession to verify empirically what simple introspection already makes apparent. I doubt any research scientist would lessen your fear of cancer with the suggestion of a walk in the forest. But what this research does highlight—and affirm—is the body/mind connection, even though its focus is exclusively on the physical elements.

Over the last decade health professionals have similarly demonstrated and borne witness to the fact that meditation can improve focus, energy, peace of mind, and a general sense of well-being. Our common experience also tells us that nature often elicits this beneficial meditative state. Why else do we Americans frequent our many natural parks? They help ground us with our connection to all that we can sense and thereby with our own bodies. That connection to the tangible world is also one of the triggers for our sense of wonder and awe.

Now wonder is at the root of all philosophy, as many philosophers have told us. And awe is the inspiration for most of what we humans struggle to express in our art, music, literature, and many of our cultural forms and figures. It is, I believe, at the core of all spirituality. Nature can inspire wonder and awe. It can awaken in us a deep resonance with all that is. And, in this manner, that resonance can change the meaning of one’s life.

Some years ago I published a work of historical fiction centered on the Vietnam War and the turmoil of the 1960’s. As you might expect, the experiences I depicted are drawn from real life. There is one scene in that book where my main character finally begins to overcome his fears—of death, commitment, and love. This scene is pivotal for it establishes the basis for his future decisions and the courage he will need to act on them. The context is one of heightened tension as his headquarters detachment awaits an eminent attack. It is the eve of the Tet Offensive in which many thousands would perish.

During his lunch break, Regis climbed the water tower. He had taken off his fatigues and stripped down to his boots and shorts. When he got to the top, he did not recline as planned, for the asphalt top would have been too hot on his bare back. Instead, he sat on the edge and hugged his knees to his chest, absorbing the heat of the sun bearing down on his uncovered head and shoulders. The horizon stretched out in all directions from his perch, the highest point on the highest hill in the local landscape. The more distant hills came to life with a fresh vividness. Their sun baked treetops aligned in a rolling pattern that mirrored the rise and fall of the earth beneath them as they reached towards the sun. They did not shrink from the heat, as Regis must, after too much exposure. They embraced it. For a time, Regis tried to embrace that heat as well. He could feel the pores of his skin releasing life-giving water into the air. In the valleys at the base of the surrounding hills, Regis perceived a slight mist that added translucence to the unending green that marched up the foothills in ever deepening hues. They too were giving up their moisture in an ongoing weather cycle that connected with endless other life cycles, of which Regis was a very small part.

His head began to throb with the rhythmic pounding of blood through his temples. His body was succumbing to a countdown in its own cycle of life and death. His death, he knew, was inevitable. If not Charlie (the Viet Cong), then nature would claim its purpose with him. There was nothing for him to do except to accept it. With his brain blasted by the heat, eyes bloated with the kaleidoscope of endless shades of green against a piercing blue sky, and the sound of nature’s silent voice humming like a seashell in his ear, Regis was overcome with the sheer beauty that rampaged at the gates of his senses. An alternate reality, ever-present but previously ignored, had broken down the barriers of his consciousness. He slid to the side of the tower, clasped the ladder rungs and slowly—with a savoring deliberation—descended. He felt unfamiliarly at peace, both with himself and with everything (“A Culpable Innocence,” page 165-166).

The key words in this excerpt are “he felt.” The affinity my protagonist felt with nature opens a window of awareness into the human heart and into the mystery of our kind. In our post-industrial and contemporary technological age, we tend to favor the view that intelligence is the dominant factor in human civilization: science is dominant, logic prevails, and well written laws can define morality and social interactions. But we evolved organically out of the very stuff our senses touch every day of our lives; and our minds can do more than objectify what we perceive. Not only can we analyze, but we can also experience our presence in the world, that is, feel reality in the absence of any intervening thoughts. We are more than a pretentious self-evolving species that can define chemical changes in our cells and even begin to manipulate our genetic inheritance. In moments of deep introspection, we can identify with nature. The danger before us, I suspect, is the foolhardy assumption that we can divorce ourselves from nature, from the mother that bore us into existence, and from our own mind/body identity. Not only has nature formed the physical basis for our existence and the introspective awareness of our presence in the world, but it can ground us in its most fundamental lesson: we cannot survive a divorce from nature, neither as individuals nor as a species.

Perhaps the supreme challenge of our time is maintaining our affinity with the natural life forces that course through our bodies. A simple walk in the woods may not only bring peace of mind, but reorient our consciousness to nature’s ubiquity and the unbiased reality of pure existence. Like the main character in my book, feeling existence in the face of death might just be the premise for leading a meaningful life. At least that was what I learned on that water tower.

(Note: If this blog resonates with you, you might also be interested in “Bound in a Nutshell . . . King of Infinite Space,” “It’s a Small World After All,” and “The Doors of Perception.”)

Her music is a bow drawn lightly across a string
rather than fingers skipping and pounding on keys.

She is exuberant like a flower opening to dawn
rather than an overripe grapefruit falling from a tree.

Her laughter sings a melodic strain
like a chime that answers a petulant breeze:
both responsive to the moment and soothing to the ear.

The music I hear in her words
is the heart that beats in her bosom:
the echo of love’s conjoining
that issued from my loins.

AJD: 7/07/2016