Spirituality in an Age of Ecocide
"Amour," Death, and a Song
That was the day of the white chrysanthemums, so magnificent I was almost fearful . . . And then, then you came to take my soul . . . ~ Rainer Maria Rilke
For someone way beyond middle age, Amour is, as we used to say, quite a trip. To those unfamiliar with this Oscar-winning French film, it chronicles the illness, degeneration, and death of an aging French piano teacher who is cared for by her loving, stoic husband. The acting is superb, the writing spare and focused, the pacing almost in "real time" as the camera lingers on the woman's first stroke, being bathed by an attendant, the husband's excruciating attempts to get her to eat some oatmeal. In the end the husband, overwhelmed with grief for his wife's guttural cries of pain, her loss of even a shred of autonomy or dignity, and perhaps also his own exhaustion, frustration, and anger, takes matters into his own hands.
This is the kind of last weeks, months, or years many of us may well expect. The very great majority of those who read these words will not die of war, starvation, or lack of medical care. Although some, sadly, may be taken early by cancer, auto accidents, or murder, most will die from age: with dementia or Alzheimer's, after strokes or heart attacks or some other slow, debilitating condition reduces us to pale, burdened, endlessly needy shadows of our former selves.
There is an easy way out of the fear and grief this reality generates: to believe that pretty much who and what we are now goes "somewhere else." For me, notions of heaven or reincarnation, like the idea of a personal, omnipotent creator God who cares how I live, were never what William James called a "live option." The thought that I could be "myself" without a body or starting another life from scratch, knowing nothing, never connected. For me, comfort must take another form.
An alternative suggestion is that people "live on in the memories of those whose lives they have touched." While in Amour the couple had a daughter and one of the woman's students was a successful pianist, it was clear that after their deaths both of them would fade from people's consciousness pretty quickly. And in any case, outside of the extremely few who are Very Great or at least Very Famous (Plato, George Washington, Shakespeare, Buddha) none of us is thought of very much after a few years, or at most a few decades: when the people who knew us for who we were—as opposed to our books or political acts, say—themselves pass away.
Which leaves us—or at least me—with the unshakable realization that what I face now is a future of continually becoming less than I am now: less intelligent, active, and industrious, with worse hearing, eyesight, and ability to concentrate. There will be a gradual turning down of the volume until the player, one way or another, just shuts off.
I can still remember lying in bed, perhaps seven years old, crying about all this, terrified at the thought of the annihilation of my just budding self-consciousness. My mother was reassuring, "Don't worry, this won't happen for such a very, very long time." For some reason that was good enough then, but today Mom's words carry, shall we say, a bit less weight.
What makes aging and death tolerable? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps we must all, as Dylan Thomas put it, "rage against the dying of the light." And really there is nothing wrong with such a response. Surely it is just because the juice of the cherry—spilling out of your mouth onto your shirt—is so sweet, so wondrous that it's so bitter to know one day all you'll have in your mouth is dust you can't even taste.