Things That Fade

Of Life and Death

            What do we make of life? Of death? I’ve read and studied intensely on the matter, from the quaintest notions to the most brilliant theories and philosophies. I’ve tackled Heidegger’s Dasein, brushed against Kierkegaard’s Sickness unto Death, and read up on the Ancient Greek Elysium and Tartarus. And yet I’m no closer to understanding it now then I was six years ago, as I watched a car drive off into the distance, and part of me felt like dying. The Native Americans believed that Death is never the end of the journey, but merely the first step into the fray of one’s adventure. Like a snake shedding its skin, so too do we shed at the moment of out death, and the moment we do, we become at one with Nature; a return to the earth, from which we came.

            The ancient teachings of Indian philosophy and Hindu theology speak of the Puruşārthas: the aims of human life. They speak of four normative aims that are intimately tied with the actions associated with them, so that they may guide man to live not only a full Hindu life, but a full human life. Dharma, which means duty, involves accomplishing one’s task and duty to society, to their fellow man and woman, and their selves, and doing so with complete detachment. It is the fulfillment of one’s purpose regardless of the consequences, for the consequences are precisely of no consequence. Artha involves the garnering of wealth and material possessions, so that one may have the required resources to accomplish their dharma. Kāma involves satisfying one’s bodily pleasures as well as indulging in activities meant to enrich the human soul. Whereas mokşa, the highest of all the aims, is a release from the strings that attach us to this realm; a release from duty and from the samsara, so that one may finally find unity in Brahman, the source of all existence.

            So what do we make of it? Of living? Of dying? A biker rides down a hill. How does he begin to understand it? A biker rides down the hill, unaware of the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. And meanwhile, all I can do is watch.

            When I was nine I rode my bicycle all across the park. I never left my house without it. One day I saw a few of the older kids building a ramp by the lake, at the foot of the hill. It took them hours to finish it, and when they finally did, the rode their bikes all the way to the top of that hill, and pedaled all the way down. I watched them launch themselves from that ramp and rocket through the air until they crashed in the middle of the lake, and I watched them swim all the way back, with their bikes in tow. And it absolutely astounded me. For the next few days, I kept coming back to that hill and I kept watching the older kids ride their bikes into the air, and I swore to myself that one day; one day it’d be me riding down that hill. One day it’d be me flying. And then it dawned on me; that day could be any day I wanted it to be. And so I waited – waited until all the other children and all the other people had cleared out. By the time they did, it was already nine in the evening. When I was absolutely certain that I was indeed alone, I walked all the way to the top of that hill, and all the while all I could think of was how utterly amazing it was going to be; how no matter what happens to me ten years down the road, I’ll remember this moment, and I’ll smile, because at nine years old, at nine in the evening, I flew. The moment I got to the top, I let out the breath that I wasn’t aware I had been holding, and I took a good long look at my surroundings, for I wanted to immortalize that moment. The wind was brisk and chilling. The road was wet. And as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single soul in sight. And so I gripped the handlebars of my bike and I rode down that hill, pedaling as hard as I could. I reached speeds I had never reached before, and I had to actively fight the fear that was forcing me to close my eyes and squeeze down on the brakes, and before I knew it, I was sailing through the air. I could feel the chill wind biting into my cheeks, and it felt liberating, in every sense of the word. That night, I truly did fly.