my ever-changing relationship with obituaries

I enjoy thinking about death.

That sounds wild. But I really do believe we have to be more comfortable with our mortality, as it is one of the only true knowings we have in this life.

I tend to read obituaries. I read an obituary the other day that was particularly enthralling. I actually posted about it here on Substack.

Here’s my reflection on January 3:

I don’t know how I feel about obituaries.

I think it’s fantastic that we try and summarize a person’s life, highlighting some of their accomplishments.

It makes me sad, obviously, reading about a death of a person.

And then there’s a twinge of melancholy for all of the things that weren’t said, that can’t be said.

The things we can’t write down, or don’t write down. Like the way they looked at their partner when they told a funny story, or how they chewed the side of her lip when they were confused — the fleeting, little moments that make up the crux of our lives.

They don’t mention those parts.

But, maybe they don’t have to.

Maybe those memories are all the more reason to soak up the present moment with the ones we love when we have them. When they are accessible.

I’m not sure.

Anyways. I found this obituary specifically wonderful to read. She was an incredible woman. I never met her. But she did amazing things.

Rest in peace Agnes. I will never know how you folded your clothes or how you liked your coffee — but I guess I’ll leave that for your loved ones and the magic that once was.

(Screenshot from The Boston Globe)

a very lovely obituary

I continued to marinate in the idea of obituaries and actually became quite angry at the audacity of the idea of an obituary…

The pressure of an obituary…

The idea we have to summarize a human-being…the essence of a human-being… a glorious, incredibly unique human-being… into what? a few measly paragraphs!!??!

That’s it?!

What a joke, and what an incredibly ridiculous ask.

A task such as this is an actually embarrassing solution for the human race. This is what we’ve arrived to in response to mourning the loss of someone? A couple of sentences? A blurry black and white portrait?

What about the moments? The real moments? The moments of alive-ness?

Like how my Gram looked when she was completely lost in thought? Or how my Papa smirked before he was about to tell a story we’ve all heard a million times? What about my best friend’s mom quirkiness in always having Stove Top stuffing on hand (just in case)? Or how my friend Justin giggled?

The signs of life! The moments of the in-between! That’s what matters. No?

I continued to think about obituaries for over a month.

And then something came to me.

We humans, all we want to do? All we want in life?

We want to be known.

And an obituary? That’s our attempt at telling the world.

This person, this beautiful person, they lived.

They did things.

This person was known.

And how gosh-darn beautiful is that?

If I’m being honest? The most beautiful things in my life have been hard to convey. They’ve been impossible to try and put down in words. And that’s pretty cool, that I’ve lived and experienced something so beautiful I can’t even begin to explain it. I’ve realized these beautiful experiences don’t need to be muddied with language. They can just say in my body.

I like to think a human’s life is like that. I think I want to live a life that’s difficult to convey.

And how beautiful that each person reading an obituary will have a different moment to grasp onto? How beautiful that every person has a different perception of that person? How beautiful that a person can be known and seen and loved in so many ever-changing ways?

So, until further notice, I am back to enjoying obituaries. But I must say, I read them leaving much more room for the in-betweenness. I read them, understanding full well, that this person was known in so many ways I can’t even attempt to understand. It gives the obituary a bit more life, leaves room for the alive-ness, for the obituary to breathe on the page. It brings a sense of expansion and endlessness into the obituary, which is a nice change of pace from the sense of ‘completion’ many seem to view the idea of death in general.

So my friends: write on, read on, and live on, always leaving room for the in betweens, the expansion, the small moments — the moments of aliveness — the moments that make us human.

And I hope you live so expansive, so wonderfully alive, so incredibly human that it’s difficult to convey into a few measly paragraphs.

Always forever and endlessly in pursuit,

T