Lisa’s Reviews > I See You've Called in Dead > Status Update

Why do we do this thing, wakes and funerals? A sign of respect, of course, for the dead. A sign of respect for the family. But I wonder if it's also for all of us. Each of us here. Surely it's a reminder. But perhaps also a call to a state of grace, if only for a few moments. A pause to remember how fleeting our own mortality is.

I'm afraid . . . [of] dying. Because I'm not sure I've ever really lived. And I don't know how.

Children can do a thing. They watch their parents in a way others can't, at close range, unnoticed, day after day. Keen observers, they know a parent's moods, know the meaning of a prolonged sigh, can decipher a clenched jaw, a change in intonation.

What are you doing? Seriously. Like, with your life. You watch the world go by. This . . . spectator. Never fully engaged, because why do that? You're like a critic. You watch. You comment. But you don't engage. Because to do that takes courage. It takes vulnerability. The chance we might get hurt. But you've had enough of that.

We need to open to life as it is, rather than how we want it to be. And how we want it to be this constant state of painlessness, of ease and safety. . . The problem is, of course, is that that state doesn't exist.

In my limited experience, I think we tend to flee pain. It's natural. Physical pain. Too hot, too cold. We fix it. Mental pain. Same thing. We . . . drink, take drugs, obsess about sex, about food. . . I've tried all of it. A smart person once told me to sit with it. To stay in the pain. . . Because it's the only way to make it go away.

I happen to be dumb enough to believe that what we do [journalism] matters. . . . . It's not to tell people what to think. . . . We just do what happened out there. Because in those news items from Tripoli and Seoul and Seattle and . . . wherever . . . are the stories of people's lives. And their deaths. And they matter. The facts matter. Because otherwise . . . otherwise their lives didn't' matter.

I'd show up , and if he was home, if he was in the mood, we would go for a walk. . . . We'd walk until he stopped, looked around, as if unsure of how we had gotten there, and turn around. Sometimes he wouldn't say a word, just walk back into the house. Sometimes we'd go for a beer and not say much. Maybe words don't matter much. Maybe it's all in the unsaid.

My naive hope was that dragging myself halfway across the world would somehow change me. I thought I would find clarity in what my life should be, perhaps a change in personality and outlook, a newfound confidence, a worldly-wise demeanor, an answer to what to do.

This thought brings to the fore that no matter where you go, you take yourself (and you flaws and challenges) with you.

I realize, at first glance, that the idea of writing one's own obituary while still alive may sound morbid. It's not, though. I promise you. It's a needed reminder of who you are, of what truly matters. Because it's your life and there's still time to write it.