We're only here awhile.

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The dimming of the day, the end of the trail, the golden years, and so on. So many ways to say poetically what is uncomfortable in prose; death is near. Poetic euphemisms veil harsh reality. They say politely what no one wants to say, at all.

Death comes to us all. We all know that. We prefer not to think about it.

“Oh, I’m too young to think about death”. Many stick with that thought until they reach their own dimming of the day. Even then, they say, “Soon, perhaps, but not today - not yet”.

We understand the inevitability; all that live will someday die.

When we think of our own death we can’t quite believe it. We refuse to believe it. Those who happily subscribe to the axiom: ”Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die”, revel in the first part and generally ignore the, “tomorrow we die”, part. They’ll get to that, later, much later. Maybe they’ll die before they have to think about death.

At least they hope so.

Death comes to us all, why bother to think about it?

I can think of one large reason. Death focuses the mind on life. We are more likely to see the opportunities that come our way when we’re conscious of the limited time we have to take them. We discover greater satisfaction in small quiet pleasures. We hope for less, and do more. We are more inclined to forgive and forget. There’s so little time.

We’re only here awhile. We shouldn’t waste our days on low ambitions. We should be joyfully attentive to the possibilities about us, including those in our declining years.

So it seems to me.

There was a British sit-com some years ago about a nursing home with an unusual twist. This nursing home avoided the typical problems of nursing homes because the residents owned the place. If management wasn’t up to snuff the old folks fired them. What a delightfully simple solution. I stole the series name, Waiting on God for the title of this essay.

Growing old needn’t be the same as growing useless. My Aunt Maudine, 96 years old as I write, has proofread every essay I’ve ever written. Not a jot or tittle escapes her keen eye. Her attention to detail searches-out the slightest misplaced comma or dangling modifier.

I am very grateful for her good work. I admire her will to engage. She hasn’t only grown old gracefully, she’s grown old vigorously.

It’s sad that so many allow their mind to die before their body. In part that’s because they spent their younger years neglecting mind and indulging body.

They worked hard and played hard, neither of which fills the mind with the comforts of knowledge: art, literature; philosophy; and the rich heritage of western civilization. These treasures were largely unknown to them. They dismissed all that “egghead stuff” to chase success, good times and fun. After all, They worked hard, they deserved a little success, good times and fun.

Unfortunately this way of thinking confuses self with job. They became Steelworkers, Linemen, lawyers, Stock Brokers, or some other occupation. They identified themselves with the job their selves did. When such people retired, they no longer knew who they were.

When self is only what is done to make a living, self cannot become.

The working-man after retirement has no purpose. Without a richly stocked inner-self of interests to provide purpose, retirement is often followed by death. In some ways that sort of death disguises the sadness of no life there to begin with.

That’s harsh. The intellectual life isn’t the only fulfilling life. There is also devotion to kindness, service to others, and the rewarding cultivation of a craft or skill, all of which bring satisfaction with or with-out commercial consideration. Fullness in life comes from focusing on things, good, true, and beautiful.

Any one of the three will do. All three, better yet.

An unfulfilling life is guaranteed by preoccupation with the here-and-now of partying, pop-culture, the latest thing, and other trivialities. These diversions bring only the emptiness they begin with.

If you fill your days in pursuit of whatever is good, true and beautiful, contentment will follow. Whether young, old - or at the dimming of the day - you will have the gratification of having lived fully.

The purpose to being conscious of death is to appreciate life.

We are all waiting on god.

Death doesn’t trouble those who have lived.

By K. L. Shipley

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