Every now and then, you are struck by a powerful, devastating reminder about the fragility of life.
The news came today that a friend and colleague has died, quite suddenly, following a brain hemorrhage. He was someone through whom life really did course – energetic, vibrant, wry and funny, and hugely talented. He was a great support to me, and to many at work. He said things which weren’t always popular, but were so often true. He always reminded us not to “drink the Kool-Aid” — a euphemistic warning against becoming too institutionalized and slowed by the organization. I so admired his devotion to his family. He loved being with his wife and kids. He loved community musical theatre, and the whole family would get involved , whether acting, or building sets, or just being there to cheer the other on. His death came all too suddenly, and also tragically, quite far away from home.
Yesterday, a friend sent us a link to a TED presentation. TED (Technology, Education, Design) is a conference held every year in Monterey California, showcasing “ideas worth spreading.” This video, a presentation by brain scientist Jill Bolte Taylor, is a passionate reenactment of her own thoughts and feelings as she suffers a stroke. A brain scientist, she was actually able to study her own brain as the vein bursts, the bleeding starts, and the left half of it shuts down. She describes how the left side is the processor – ordering the past, planning the future. But the right side tells us to be here now. To feel how we are connected to the universe and every being within it. When she felt herself dying, she describes feeling at one with the universe – she says it is a beautiful feeling.
I hope that is what my friend and colleague felt.
I have also been reading “Fifteen Days“, a book which intricately describes the last moments of the lives of several Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan. Some die in gun battle with the Taliban; some, in car accidents; others following tragic “friendly” fire. All die extremely suddenly. One second they are thriving, strong, their bodies probably coursing with adrenaline. The next, they stop, still. I wonder what kind of transition they go through as they leave.
On this day, and every day, I do hope the people I love know that I do love them. Not because I plan to go anytime soon. But because any of us might.
