Anyway, one woulda thought that with my week off at home in Chicago I would finally take time to write a few deep philosophical posts, especially since there has been a sizable gap of dates without posts over the last couple years at about this time. It's been kind of a slow and challenging week, aside from the news of Maggie's passing and realizing the current separation from most of my friends. I've been cleaning out my room and putting clumsy objects into boxes, all the while trying to get some composition stuff copied onto Finale and looking ahead to filing for taxes and Financial Aid. It's been a dull week, but it's not like I can completely put my busy life on hold so I can pig out. Plus I've been laying low largely because I've been contemplating life (I'm always doing that, but this time I'm not so occupied with daily tasks).
Ironically enough, before I arrived and found out about Maggie last Saturday, I had been in deep thought about the concept of mortality. I have this personal tradition of saying the Lord's Prayer (Rite I, of course) silently while the plane is gunning down the runway. I always try to time it so that right after I say "Amen" the plane lifts off the ground--usually I go through the prayer really quickly and there's another 10-15 seconds before the takeoff.
Over the previous week or so when I've had mini breaks in my schedule I've been really trying to figure out how fragile we really are. As a kid I had a fear of death, because I wasn't sure what would happen after. All of us have seen it happen to someone in one way or another, whether it's on TV or the real thing. And from what we observe, the "victim" is breathing, looking, and talking (although barely) one minute, and then he/she suddenly stops, presumably finished from doing anything that we are privileged to do in our lifetimes. I was afraid, having understood the observer's point of view, that if any of us happened to have it occur to us individually we would just stop being able to think, perceive and understand. I have absolutely no recollection of life before I was born, not even in a place far away from earth. I recall fearing that I would forget everything and not be able to see or do anything new.
I think faith has something to do with overriding this fear. I've been cleaning out papers from my room, and I'd forgotten that I was actually quasi-involved with spiritual groups before FCA during first year. Over the last couple years I've grown in my faith, but as I look at it throughout my entire life I can't physically remember what kind of faith I had before. I must've had some of it, because I recall writing in one of my college application essays (I was describing one of the compositions I was sending in) something about Jesus rising from the dead to free us from bondage of sin. I think it was one of a few things I actually believed (aside from the fact that I originally believed in Jesus because his coming, going and returning was responsible for the current Gregorian calendar that measures our time so). I also recalled that I sort of tried to get involved with some church/music competition where I had to send in an application with a rendition of "Amazing Grace." Anyway, the point of this paragraph is that contrary to what I may have thought of my earlier past self over the last two-plus years, I always had faith; I just never really realized it.
Getting back to mortality, I wasn't sure of its purpose in life. I kind of still am not. Basically what I realized was that it's merely a fabric of life and that it's nothing to worry about--all this while I'm on a plane on a day when turbulence came in droves. I also was wrestling with why we--humans, animals, plants, etc--have to go through this mortal life if God is waiting on the other side to either welcome or judge us (or both). If our hearts are good and our actions show it, then life will pretty much be a breeze. And, knowing that God himself is all about goodness and those that reflect it, there is always the question of the people that don't fall under these categories. Why, then, do they exist? I like to think that they merely have a much harder road to travel, or less likely, that they act as our tests or temptors. But then, if God already knows what we're going to choose in those situations, why have a mortal life at all? It's almost as if it's a test run. I know, I'm already questioning his plan again. And honestly, everything ["http://n8daoggblog.blogspot.com/2006/08/just-gotta-say-it-sometimes.html"] I've pondered about life and mortality (especially lately) is a bit too big for me to grasp in my entire lifetime, let alone a small fraction of it (i.e. hours or days).
After I was hit with news of Maggie's passing and had a day or so to let it sink in, I was once again griping about mortality and why we have it (specifically saying that it sucks, since I'd just lost a family member who'd lived at home for the last 15 1/2 years). Even though I miss that cat and having her around, what I struggled with more was understanding if she knew Mom and I loved her, even though I sometimes felt like we put up with her more. I recall one time I accidentally irritated her and she hissed at me. I reacted and yelled back, and Mom told me to calm down because Maggie couldn't understand what I was trying to do (that dang cat-brain). That cat was relatively intelligent and had good wits about her. But after that moment I realized that there were some things that she would never know. And while I was reflecting over the first few days of break, I was praying that she was (finally) able to understand that we loved her, even though there was no way for us to really communicate it. That in itself tore me up more than her death did. Going back to my earlier suggestion that life and mortality is merely a test run of a set of physical forms and concepts, I honestly don't know. I could probably do all sorts of scientific experiments on the subject (both physical science and philosophical studies) and I would probably end up without much of a conclusion. I think life is arbitrary. Maybe it's mean (the Watterson Calvin quote comes to mind) but it's really just random. I think mortality can be reduced to an abstract series of lifetimes of different matter, but what gives it all meaning is the love that we share with each other. If I had never loved Maggie or my late grandparents or anyone else that I knew (or received it in return), it wouldn't be so painful when their respective lifetimes reached the end. At the end of the day, it's what connections we make with each other that gives meaning to an otherwise bland sequence of events that make up life.
What exactly are the "heebie-jeebies" anyway?
