The Little Deaths That Make Us Better
I’ve been thinking recently about how we honor the dead: dead loved ones, dead parts of ourselves, those who are “dead to us”, lost loves, dead dreams…and what it means to be alive. I’m not being funny here. Okay, maybe not dead serious either.
Hear me out.
To be dead simply means to not be alive, right? And in recognizing the less than lively parts of myself I think it’s only right and good to find a way to honor them.
Alright, a little background
I’ve recently found myself as a forty-something Mom of three with little space or time to pause and reflect on anything, never mind space to pay tribute to imaginary dead things.
Between my regular parenting detail, trying to keep house with my spouse and attending to the specific needs of three spunky, opinionated kiddos, things can get a bit dicey. Also, I’m pretty sure the peri-menopausal hormonal gymnastics routine my body’s been up to has set some psychological and spiritual shifting into motion.
So, what’s a lady to do?
A quick google search of “ways to honor the dead” digs up many wonderful ideas of how to do so.
Ideas, like setting up a fundraiser in their name, preserving photographs, planting a memorial tree, sharing special meals, praying and traveling, are some of the many suggestions. Across the globe, people celebrate the dead with lively, lighthearted festivals to help ease the pain of loss and accept death.
All of these traditions share one thing in common.
They all seek to enrich the lives of the living.
The dead parts of ourselves, ugh. This one feels like a drain, to begin with. I’m conflicted on this one because I feel that most of the “ dead” parts of me are better off left lying in their psychological slumber. However, I do wonder sometimes if there is a benefit to recognizing those past shadows and giving them their fifteen-minute of fame.
All of us have things we’d rather leave in the past but barring any chance of causing trauma to our current selves perhaps there is a benefit to allowing those personas to resurface, if only momentarily.
Recently my daughter, now a tween, is experiencing emotional, roller-coaster-like moodiness that often leaves other family members feeling unappreciated and downright irritated. It is easy for an overtired parent to find the fastest way to “fix” the problem with media consumption or food, whatever it takes to cool the flames, but it only takes a moment or two to breathe, relax and recall those anxious, overwhelming preteen feelings that all of us experienced and to feel more compassion and genuine connection with our child. This, alone, is reason enough for me to slip into her shoes for a few minutes.
What about those who we have written off for one reason or another? Maybe they hurt or angered us or committed a crime of friendship that we just couldn’t forgive. How much of our current experience with friendships, romantic partners, etc. is colored by our past hurt?
I’ve noticed that in my own relationships I’ll often feel rejection, irritation or hurt that, upon further reflection, has nothing to do with the person who I feel is causing me pain but rather a pileup of former experiences that I’ve developed conditioned responses to. When I’m aware enough to recognize where these biases originated I can soften, listen and often have a more productive and balanced argument than I ever could before.
You know what? I even feel gratitude for past damages, failures, and disrespect because they’ve taught me how to be more resilient. Will I be calling up my old adversary to thank them for helping me grow? No, I’m not that evolved. Not sure I want to be.
Besides these feelings are not about them, they’re mine and I am their master now.
Eventually, most of us lay some of our dreams to rest. When I was a child, I wanted to be Cyndi Lauper. I asked my Mom if I could shave my head in the orange checkerboard pattern that she sported in the ’80s but had to settle for rows of braids with feather roach clips.
Luckily, most of the adults around me were wise enough to know that I imagined them as beautiful adornments that perfectly matched my neon green slinky earrings and mismatched clothing. I wrote songs in my mind and sang and danced everywhere I went.
Eventually, I realized that being someone else wasn’t at the top of my priority list and that I was headed for a winding path through life. So, Cyndi went to sleep shortly after my twelfth birthday and many other personas and dreams marched buoyantly behind her.
I don’t regret a single one of my former dreams; I lived them so fully when they were alive. They showed me how to be me and I am thankful for their influence on all of my life’s adventures great and miserable.
So, all of this has me wondering how would things be different if we gave attention to and shared, with someone else, all of our losses big and small, ugly and amazing and honored them even in a small way. Can that kind of attention and self-love do good for us? Will we offer and feel more mercy for another’s suffering if we honor our own?
What if we can be better? I’d like to give it a try.
