On Life's Fragility
As I was coming out of the office today, I wondered, what would I do if I saw a huge tsunami coming at me, over the parking lot?
And after a few moments of reflection, I realized the answer was, "Probably, drown."
I know that'll sound glib to some folks, or defeatist to others, but to me it's just realistic.
If I had my wits about me I'd drop my heavy backpack, and maybe take off my shoes and my heavy coat if I had the time. And perhaps after a bit more thought I'd run away from the building to decrease my chance of getting slammed into it. But really, swept up into a giant wave like that, my life would be in the hands of fate. I'd either drown, or not.
It's one of those cliches, is it not? Life is fragile. At any moment, you could be killed senselessly and unexpectedly. You could die in a car accident. A car could crash through your living room wall. A plane could fall on you. A meteor could hit you. You could catch fatal food poisoning. You could be swallowed up by an earthquake. You could get crushed in a mud slide. You could be washed away by a flood, or dashed to pieces by a tornado, or struck by lightning while talking on the phone, or even blown to bits by a terrorist bomb. It's a cliche, but it's true, and it's been true even before the human race was on the scene. Life is fragile.
And the secret is to accept that, and not let it stop you from living.
But here I get into sorta deep waters, my own personal philosophy for dealing with the inevitability of death. There should be a word for that, like "thanapologetics". Perhaps not everyone has need of such a philosophy, but I've certainly had to work hard to reconcile my desire for an enjoyable life with the bleak reality of my own impending death.
It's a topic that has bothered me from the moment I first realized that there might be no such thing as an afterlife. When I was 8 I would get so upset thinking about the fact that I would die someday, that I had to keep a stack of magazines and light-hearted books near my bed, so I could read them each night to distract my thoughts while I was waiting to go to sleep. I took up reading in the bath for the same reason; otherwise, sitting in that white-tiled, silently echoing void would lead me to morbid thoughts. Eventually I got over that wave of depression, but it would always come back to me every few years, leading to another bout of distracting myself until I could get on with living again.
A year or two back I had my latest bout of this depression, and it was bad. I found myself at times wishing that I had never been born, because then I wouldn't have had to die.
Which, I realized, was kind of paradoxical.
When I got out of this latest bout of depression, I had a new theory of thanapologetics, based partly on the realization of how contradictory it was to hate life because it must end. I looked at things from sort of a Game Theory perspective.
If there is an afterlife, well, then I don't have anything to worry about, since the nature of that afterlife is unknowable. Oh, there's the possibility of a hell, but most religions in which you go to Hell either say you go there temporarily (in which case, it's really something you need to do anyway to work off your sins), or you go forever because you didn't arbitrarily choose their religion; in which case, the correct choice is more or less random, which I find unlikely.
On the other hand, if there isn't an afterlife, I can separate things into two possibilities. I can either live a life which is tainted by my constant dwelling on death, or I can live a life in which I don't constantly dwell on death. In either case, I will still die at the end.
In other words, I will die whether or not I ruin my entire life by obsessively fearing death. Once I realized that, the choice was simple. I could either plunge myself into the black depths of life by dwelling on death all the time, or I could lift myself into the heights of life by just letting myself live free from fear. I decided to go with the latter.
Of course it's not that simple. Fear is not entirely a matter of free will. But, for me at least, a large part of it is conscious. I can either send my thoughts in directions that worsen my anxiety, or I can send it in directions that make it better. Realizing that my anxiety makes no difference at all also helps free me from it. If it makes no difference, then I have no need to worry, and I can allow myself to relax.
And I try to be optimistic. For similar reasons. Most of the bad stuff in this life will happen whether or not I worry about it happening. I'll feel worse if I worry about it. I'll feel better if I don't. So the only substantial difference that comes about from me being an optimist rather than a pessimist, is that it makes me feel better. Given that's so, the only rational choice is to be optimistic.
So, taking it back to the tsunami. If I saw a 70-foot wall of water coming towards me? Well, I'd probably be terrified and then drown horribly. But I don't have a 70-foot wall of water bearing down on me, which means I need to do the things in life that you can do when you're not in immediate danger of death, so that when a 70-foot wall of water does bear down on me, I'll at least have something pleasant to look back on.
On a side-note, I disabled comments for this entry because it's so personal I'd rather not have to deal with the opinions of the Internet-at-large in regards to it. If you know me, you could always contact me privately about it if you want.
And after a few moments of reflection, I realized the answer was, "Probably, drown."
I know that'll sound glib to some folks, or defeatist to others, but to me it's just realistic.
If I had my wits about me I'd drop my heavy backpack, and maybe take off my shoes and my heavy coat if I had the time. And perhaps after a bit more thought I'd run away from the building to decrease my chance of getting slammed into it. But really, swept up into a giant wave like that, my life would be in the hands of fate. I'd either drown, or not.
It's one of those cliches, is it not? Life is fragile. At any moment, you could be killed senselessly and unexpectedly. You could die in a car accident. A car could crash through your living room wall. A plane could fall on you. A meteor could hit you. You could catch fatal food poisoning. You could be swallowed up by an earthquake. You could get crushed in a mud slide. You could be washed away by a flood, or dashed to pieces by a tornado, or struck by lightning while talking on the phone, or even blown to bits by a terrorist bomb. It's a cliche, but it's true, and it's been true even before the human race was on the scene. Life is fragile.
And the secret is to accept that, and not let it stop you from living.
But here I get into sorta deep waters, my own personal philosophy for dealing with the inevitability of death. There should be a word for that, like "thanapologetics". Perhaps not everyone has need of such a philosophy, but I've certainly had to work hard to reconcile my desire for an enjoyable life with the bleak reality of my own impending death.
It's a topic that has bothered me from the moment I first realized that there might be no such thing as an afterlife. When I was 8 I would get so upset thinking about the fact that I would die someday, that I had to keep a stack of magazines and light-hearted books near my bed, so I could read them each night to distract my thoughts while I was waiting to go to sleep. I took up reading in the bath for the same reason; otherwise, sitting in that white-tiled, silently echoing void would lead me to morbid thoughts. Eventually I got over that wave of depression, but it would always come back to me every few years, leading to another bout of distracting myself until I could get on with living again.
A year or two back I had my latest bout of this depression, and it was bad. I found myself at times wishing that I had never been born, because then I wouldn't have had to die.
Which, I realized, was kind of paradoxical.
When I got out of this latest bout of depression, I had a new theory of thanapologetics, based partly on the realization of how contradictory it was to hate life because it must end. I looked at things from sort of a Game Theory perspective.
If there is an afterlife, well, then I don't have anything to worry about, since the nature of that afterlife is unknowable. Oh, there's the possibility of a hell, but most religions in which you go to Hell either say you go there temporarily (in which case, it's really something you need to do anyway to work off your sins), or you go forever because you didn't arbitrarily choose their religion; in which case, the correct choice is more or less random, which I find unlikely.
On the other hand, if there isn't an afterlife, I can separate things into two possibilities. I can either live a life which is tainted by my constant dwelling on death, or I can live a life in which I don't constantly dwell on death. In either case, I will still die at the end.
In other words, I will die whether or not I ruin my entire life by obsessively fearing death. Once I realized that, the choice was simple. I could either plunge myself into the black depths of life by dwelling on death all the time, or I could lift myself into the heights of life by just letting myself live free from fear. I decided to go with the latter.
Of course it's not that simple. Fear is not entirely a matter of free will. But, for me at least, a large part of it is conscious. I can either send my thoughts in directions that worsen my anxiety, or I can send it in directions that make it better. Realizing that my anxiety makes no difference at all also helps free me from it. If it makes no difference, then I have no need to worry, and I can allow myself to relax.
And I try to be optimistic. For similar reasons. Most of the bad stuff in this life will happen whether or not I worry about it happening. I'll feel worse if I worry about it. I'll feel better if I don't. So the only substantial difference that comes about from me being an optimist rather than a pessimist, is that it makes me feel better. Given that's so, the only rational choice is to be optimistic.
So, taking it back to the tsunami. If I saw a 70-foot wall of water coming towards me? Well, I'd probably be terrified and then drown horribly. But I don't have a 70-foot wall of water bearing down on me, which means I need to do the things in life that you can do when you're not in immediate danger of death, so that when a 70-foot wall of water does bear down on me, I'll at least have something pleasant to look back on.
On a side-note, I disabled comments for this entry because it's so personal I'd rather not have to deal with the opinions of the Internet-at-large in regards to it. If you know me, you could always contact me privately about it if you want.