A glance at sunrise
Some of my close friends and family might label me an epicurean (one who is devoted to sensual enjoyment, especially that derived from fine food and drink).
I recently read, Staring at the Sun, by renowned psychiatrist Irvin D. Yalom. Dr. Yalom believes that “confronting death is like staring into the sun-something painful, difficult, but necessary if we are to go on living as fully conscious individuals who grasp the true nature of our human condition, our finiteness, our brief time in the light.”
Dr. Yalom also writes, “Once we confront our own mortality, we are inspired to rearrange our priorities, communicate more deeply with those we love, appreciate more keenly the beauty of life, and increase our willingness to take the risks necessary for personal fulfillment.”
In Chapter Four, Dr. Yalom introduces the reader to Epicurus and to three of his best-known arguments regarding mortality:
1) The mortality of the soul
2) The ultimate nothingness of death
3) The argument of symmetry.
Before discussing the second and third arguments, let's look at Epicurus.
Epicurus was an ancient Greek philosopher who was born around 341 B.C.E., seven years after Plato’s death, and grew up in the Athenian colony of Samos, an island in the Mediterranean Sea. He was about 19 when Aristotle died, and he studied philosophy under followers of Democritus and Plato. Epicurus died from kidney stones around 271 or 270 B.C.E.
Epicurus believed that at death consciousness ceases and one experiences eternal nothingness parallel to the state of nothingness prior to birth, thus, an argument for symmetry: Α& Ω.
In her memoir, In Love: A Memoir of Love and Loss, Amy Bloom writes about her husband, Brian, who at age 66 is diagnosed with aggressive Alzheimer’s disease. They courageously decide to end his life with dignity, but must fly to Zurich to end it peacefully.
Describing the moments following Brian’s death, Bloom writes, “I sit, holding his hand, for a long time. I get up and wrap my arms around him and kiss his forehead, as if he is my baby, at last gone to sleep, as if he is my brave boy going on a long journey, miles and miles of Nought.”
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Before his death in 1996, Timothy Leary wrote, “You’ve got to approach your dying the way you live your life, with curiosity, with hope, with fascination, with courage, and with the help of your friends. I am determined to give death a better name—or die trying. You’ve got to take charge of it, plan it, talk to your friends about it.”
I share with you now two poems I feel are relevant to our discussion: one by Robert Frost, and one by yours truly that is a response to Frost's.
Come In
As I came to the edge of the woods, Thrush music -- hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark. Too dark in the woods for a bird By sleight of wing To better its perch for the night, Though it still could sing. The last of the light of the sun That had died in the west Still lived for one song more In a thrush's breast. Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went -- Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars; I would not come in. I meant not even if asked; And I hadn't been.
-Robert Frost
The Last of the Light of the Sun
At the first glimpse of the Evening star, Thrush music!
The road behind me seems distant,
yet somehow short.
It glistens as the last of the light of the sun magnifies
each grain of sand.
Wildflowers stretch toward heaven, striving to retain
their beauty.
Thrush music returns!
O ageless singer, I, like comrades before me, know
your song. I understand your music.
But as I look toward the sunset, I savor the
magnificence of the remaining light.
-CPW
photo by Victoria Ellwood looking west at Merry Mount
CPW
P.S. I hope I don't die of kidney stones!
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