The older you get, the more you think about death. Or maybe, faced with the passings of loved ones, you spend a little time dwelling on mortality. Some monks meditate on death to prepare themselves for this inevitability — rotting corpses, the lifelessness of loved ones. Part of our sorrow and suffering is linked to the fact that we age and die — it's when it takes us by surprise and we can't accept it that we truly suffer.
Even the lichen eats the rocks - who are we to think we last forever?
The more I think about death and decay, the more beautiful it becomes. Everything has its time in the world, and everything transmutes to another form of matter. It's okay that after the last person who remembers us dies, we die with them. After thousands and thousands of years of human existence, there are plenty of people who won't be remembered for some grand historical event or infamous wrongdoing.
In the absence of a belief in God, I believe we return to oneness — and for me, that's a very practical, biological return. My flesh, blood, and bones simply feed the earth. I return to dust — and become part of all things. I don't need heaven or an afterlife. I am more than happy to take my place in the universe in this way. What a privilege it was to draw breath at all!
This week I read Thomas Hardy's Afterwards in an anthology and found myself reading it again and again. I used to live in Hardy country in Dorset, UK. It was a place of hedgerows, pheasants and deer, rolling hills, white chalk cliffs, trout streams, cider and horses, dandelions and bunny rabbits.
The speaker in Hardy's poem is more than likely the author himself. It is is deeply reflective of how he'll be remembered afterwards, and for him, it is enough to be remembered for being mindful of nature and thoughtful about the small details that others might not notice. I love how this is enough for him. Hardy, like me, was agnostic, not a devout believer in conventional religion, and like me, turned to nature for meaning.
In this poem he speaks of his love for the "beautiful earth," the "dewfall-hawk" as the sun lowers in the sky, and the animals such as the "hedgehog" that "travels furtively over the lawn" that he "strove" to protect.
This isn't a song about mourning — the "gloom" and the black night when one dies — but instead a fond remembrance of someone who was so enraptured by nature. Each stanza ends with an imagined commentary from those who remember him. "Will they say?" he wonders, and was he "a man who..." This is a quiet echo of remembrance, not a wailing dirge or mournful lament.
gravestones, somerset, UK
It's a reminder, too, that our stay on earth is fleeting — "tremulous," from the first line, as the seasons pass and spring comes again, full of life, just as the night comes too, "mothy and warm." Here is a man who learned from observing nature, contemplating the flight of moths and birds and bigger things like the boundless ocean and endless stars. There is a sense of the sacred here, but it’s a sacred nature, indicative of Hardy’s pantheistic leanings.
It is enough, I read into this poem, that we are part of these cycles of birth and death, and are remembered for our deep love of everything in it. In a culture obsessed with legacy, it is more than enough for me to be remembered in this way — or at least to become biologically part of that which I love.
Afterwards
by Thomas HardyWhen the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
"He was a man who used to notice such things"?If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid’s soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
“To him this must have been a familiar sight.”If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, “He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.”If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
“He was one who had an eye for such mysteries”?And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its knell,
“That he was one who was born to an early death, and to die in the tomb
Before he had looked his last on the beautiful earth”—
Ah no, it is best that they say, “He was one who used to notice such things.”
For my friend @holoz0r
With Love,
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What a fabulous poem and post. What is beginning to strike me at the phase of life I'm in now (54) is that everything in life has its season. Many of the things we waste time fearing we learn to accept when the time comes. Middle-age can be so strange—you begin to feel as though certain aspects of modern society are a bit foreign but you still feel like you're young inside. Sometimes the reflection staring back at you in the mirror isn't the one you remember or expect to see.
I didn't think much about mortality until the pandemic forcefully thrust it into all of our lives. I was very lucky up until that point not to really to be touched much by it. Now, in this middle-phase of life, the physical/mental decline of older relatives (and even some friends) serve as a constant reminder of how short and precious our time is. This makes me more patient, and appreciate the time with the people around me. In a weird way brings me to a place of a little more acceptance about my own mortality and just wanting to squeeze the most out of the years I have left. Still, sometimes, when I do the math, it's just surreal to think I only have a few decades left considering how quickly the past thirty years have gone.
I used to think more about legacy when I was younger but now it just seems pointless and even narcissistic. The most we can do is enjoy each moment and the thought of that gets real in your fifties.
It reminds me of this song.....
I definitely think you and I are on exactly the same page, which isn't surprising given we are same age. My Dad used to say, and my late grandmother, they'd get a fright seeing themselves in the mirror - who was that old person??
I think we should take solace in fact that even if, say, we died at 75, twenty years is a good chunk of life we can enjoy. Like Hardy in this poem, I think I'm far more observant about the beautiful things in the world, and, as you say, I'm a bit more patient with those I love.
During the pandemic I was a little obsessed with the goddess Kali - she taught me a lot about death and time. I'm fascinated by poetry and philosophy about death, not in an obsessive and morbid way, but I do find myself doing little thought dives, and that's probably good for me, as it may make my passing a little more gentle.
Dylan Thomas said we should rage against the coming night, but he was a man (no offense) and I rather think a quiet acceptance, whilst living well, is a better way to go.
Here's one little poem I wrote re Kali in the pandemic
https://peakd.com/poetry/@riverflows/sing-kali-devotional
And the other about accepting becoming older (not that I'm not exactly raging about it)
https://peakd.com/hive-138388/@riverflows/tea-with-the-crones
It definitely sounds like we're on the same page! I remember my Aunt saying the same thing about the mirror. It's kind of reassuring to me that she said she still felt good in her 80's. Twenty-five years is a good run, especially if you're truly awake and living in a conscious way. I'm finding patience to be my key lesson at the moment in so many different ways. Thank you for sharing the links to your poems. I'll check them out today!
Thanks for this, I really enjoyed it. Along with the comments so far. Especially,
To which, I responded, "As do I!"
Yet as I read it aloud, I couldn't help but agree with @holoz0r's sense of awkwardness. So I asked Google for something similar. And on the second attempt I found "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep"...
Not as poignant. But definitely an easier read.
Oh that poem is very common at funerals, and you can see why... It's very accessible. So beautiful! It really resonates for a lot of people and it's how I feel closer to my late father too - he is present in the world around me. Again, this is a poem about legacy. Thanks for reminding me of it.
The Hardy one is quite complex @keithtaylor , a bit of a harder read for people I guess. There's some really, really clever things in there, but it's probably easier if you know a little about poetry and Hardy himself and maybe even the English landscape. Plus, the language is old fashioned... written early than 'Do not stand at my grave and weep'...
I adore the image of the bells ringing and stop starting in the wind and fog - an incredible image which made me visualize the scene and hear the sounds. It's the kind of thing you have to read a few times but I guess I love a poem that makes me work a little! And I love a clever poem.
I'm glad you enjoyed it though, even if you found it awkward!
Also thanks for the tip .. so kind!
As per the last words of Sharn's grandmother (literally, as she lay dying) - "I'm not dead yet!" Those were her last words.
I am not sure that I should be thanking you for bringing this to my attention, but it is very much something that I can relate to. I observe detail in prolific and mundane things.
I often think that others do not, but maybe I just stop to take the time to tell them about those details. The details I tend to notice probably deserve their own posts, but I know the first time I saw light filtering through the West, onto a four lane road, and the car's alloy wheels reflected the light back onto the pavement, and their own body work was when I first truly knew I wanted to do photography. In the light, nothing can hide, and you can notice everything.
Then, again, with the light. I LOVE light filtering through substances. Eg, the sun shines through the laundry door, onto the often open dyer door, and refracts through the plastic, creating strange and interesting patterns of light, forged by the microscopic scratches of jean studs and buttons rubbing against the door in countless drying cycles.
My biggest weakness is my attention to detail.
That's definitely not a weakness! Good artists NEED that eye for detail.
Jamie said he'd like to be remembered that way too. He always notices birds and elements of nature that others don't. When I read this to him in bed the other morning, to my surprise he said he'd like it read at his funeral. Awho says physicists can't enjoy or be moved by poetry!
So, Holosaurus, what I really want to know is .. did you like it appreciate the poem?
I felt it could have had a slightly better flow, it was a touch awkward in terms of its structure or pacing, but then again, I didn't read it out aloud.
Appreciation in its meaning and intent were certainly achieved.
We are not only flesh - but also spirit. And spirit is immortal. Just like words in the HIVE blockchain, they are not material, they are eternal.
I'd like to understand what you understand as 'spirit'.
Consciousness. What people will learn to transfer to other carriers in the future (their clone or artificial non-protein body). Thus, a person will become immortal in the flesh (having several of his clones in storage).
Interesting! I always feel doubtful about this really. It sounds terrible but I think once we are dead we are dead. It's just wishful thinking because we can't imagine our brains stopping and there being nothing of us left. Sounds nihilistic I suppose. I'd also like to believe I'm wrong!
I think there is a high probability that at the very end of life we will have a pleasant surprise. My thoughts are not based on faith. I was an atheist until I was 30 and after 30 I did not become a believer, only knowledge.
What do you mean?
At the age of 30, I read a book by Soviet neurophysiologist Natalia Bekhtereva and was struck by the cases from her practice that were inexplicable by science. Since then, I have been studying similar cases.
But do people notice those who
"He was one who used to notice such things.”..
I'm not sure what you mean
It seems to me that the question “Will they say?” is not just a reflection of Hardy's attitude towards life, but also a hint at the possibility that no one will notice him, no one will say anything. It is doubt, hidden sadness, and perhaps regret about a world where modesty, subtle feelings, observation, and attention to nature are not valued..
Yes, exactly. Apparently he wrote this before he died and they read it at his funeral. The questions suggest he is pondering what they'll say afterwards, and hoping it is those things they'll remember him for. Nice observation.
Life is full of uncertainty.
The cycle of birth and death is indepth.
This is so beautifully written, and it made me think deeply about things I usually try to avoid — like death and how short life really is.
Yeah, I"m finding it best to confront it head on- it's part of life and we can't avoid it, so best find a kind of beauty in it, right?
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900,000 years ago there was what evolutionists call a bottlenecking of the Homo heidelbergensis line of human evolution. It is estimated that only a little over 1000 survived and grew very slowly over the next 150,000 years.
It was touch and go, however it did magnify the one source idea that you allude to; although in a less philosophical way. Each one of them and every ancestor which followed played a huge part in us having this discussion today. It is only through labelling and value judging their existence that makes some individual shine more than others in our mind's eye.
One must wonder if we ever left it. Perhaps it is simply obscured by the ego's busy mind which tends to focus on the "me". It seems that putting someone or something before oneself is a good means of breaking that process of Thought.
Steven Levine has the great allegory that thoughts are like clouds drifting across the sky of our vast and open mind.
The thought (some may say the ego) has a means of capturing us in those clouds of thought, be they dark or fluffy white.
After enough cushion time one will begin to likely see how thoughts are connected. By thinking about a person or thing one can quickly travel along that train of thought. One will see over time that these are often not random and by thinking the thought again our mind will summon the same series of thoughts to arrive at the same landing. If that landing is a place of anger than emotions take over to separate us further from the One. Pleasure might do the same by thinking of an attractive person one might end up consumed by sexual fantasies when having a thought of that person. There need be no value judgements for the thoughts as traditional religions tend to teach. To them some thoughts are sinful while others are not. My feeling is that there is only the potential of being mentally removed from the One regardless of its good or bad label.
If the same mutated DNA marker can be found in me and my 900,000 year old ancestor one has to question the concept of leaving and rejoining the One.
For me there are those moments of joy when feeling (as opposed to remembering) my connection to the One; as fleeting as they tend to be.
Without turning this comment into a post it is beginning to be allow me to let Erich Fromm explain life's hack to bring us to the realization of the One in his concise overview in The Art of Loving.
✌️ 💛