#i do hope we get to see some future development for niko and him overcoming his insecurities

[awed-frog]

hiya *waves* ... a couple days ago you had a post about death--about living well? The oldest living generation in my family have started dying. (It feels so odd to say it like that. but.) It feels like my family is stuck in endless loops of grief. Do you have any advice for making the sadness a little easier to bear? Thank you very much for your time.

I’m sorry you’re going through that. I know exactly what it’s like, because my family is 90% old or oldish people, and it’s so damn hard, isn’t it? Thank you for trusting me to give you advice on this - here is my best attempt at an answer on this complicated topic.

Some say we now find it harder to bear death because we’re not used to it anymore. Very few of us kill our own food, child mortality is exceedingly rare (in luckier countries, that is) and old age is generally disguised, disregarded and hidden away as much as possible. Even funerals, which used to be held in the family home, have become a business (I think around the late nineteenth century, which makes it a very recent development): nowadays, dead people are ferreted away, washed by professionals, dolled up, even pumped full of questionable chemicals so they’ll look ‘healthy’, ‘serene’, and ‘at peace’. I know people who prevent children from visiting older relatives and seeing them after their death, and even going to the funeral, because ‘it’s too much for them’.

(I disagree, by the way. I think it’s good to show children everyone’s different and getting old is a thing, and it’s better to give them a chance to say goodbye, to understand a loved one is truly gone, so they can process it and ask questions about it. Some of my younger students were left traumatized by hidden deaths in the family, and it was heartwrenching to watch.)

I think there’s some truth in all that; but on the other hand, I also see this idea of ‘people getting used to death because shorter life span’ as a bit of a myth. If you read letters from Antiquity, or go through tombstone inscriptions, you find a lot of people ravaged by grief. The fact it was common to lose children and spouses didn’t make it particularly easier to bear.

I don’t know that I can answer your question with anything worth hearing or sharing, because I haven’t found a good way to deal with grief myself. There are days I can be okay with it, and I’m happy and grateful for the time I had with my loved ones, and can imagine they’ll never be truly gone (I’m not sure that I believe in Paradise, but I like the idea that the matter making up our bodies simply goes on to become something else: the old wisdom vita mutatur, non tollitur readapted for the age of science, if you will), and then sometimes it all seems pointless, and pointlessly sad.

What I learned, however, is most of our sufferings come from one thing: we find it very hard to accept change. 

Poet  and historian Hillel Schwartz once said the biggest challenge when facing old age, a life-threatening illness or a sudden disability is not the practical side of it (for instance, that you can’t walk anymore), but the certainty that without this specific thing you can no longer do, you’re no longer yourself. He encourages people to find their sense of self in more profound things, because most of us build it by relying on stuff that’s not permanent and can disappear at any moment (our family, our job, our favourite sport or hobby). I heard him speak two years ago, but I still think about that regularly, because it’s hard, isn’t it, to know who you are without these external supports we take for granted in our daily life (walking, running, a salary, a mother and father, your best friend)? 

And I think the same is true for grief. When you grieve for someone, your grieve for two lives lost: your loved one’s, and your own. You grieve because the person you were with them no longer exist. You’ll never again be someone’s grandchild. That’s gone forever. That side of your personality you only shared with this person, the inside jokes, the quiet moments of affections, the secrets you kept for them or they kept for you - that’s finished. A piece of your sould that’s just missing. And my best guess here is that, like Hillel Scwhartz said, you need to accept you can function as yourself without that relationship in your life - which takes time, of course, and it’s easier said than done.

We know Japanese noblemen cultivated this quest of your deepest, most intimate and essential self by doing three things, which I think we can all practice to try and overcome our saddest moments.

First of all, there are the famous reflections on the worst case scenario. Nobody wants to think about their own death, or your loved one’s death, or other traumatic events like a severe illness, losing your job or your home, but there’s a theory that by staving off those thoughts, what happens is that you’ll be even more afraid of them (because ignorance breeds fear) and completely unprepared when the thing actually comes. That’s why samurais thought about their own deaths a lot, and research shows that being prepared - for anything, and especially for the worst - is a very good way to reduce anxiety and unhappiness. It’s particularly good to gently encourage ageing relatives to make plans for their future lives on living arrangements, medical care and so on.

Meditation is another good way to force the mind to be still and be more present and more aware of why you think and feel the way you do, and it’s also been proven to have health benefits. Plus, as a Zen abbot told me, when you sit in meditation for a long time, you ultimately start to realize all things are equal - that you’re not ‘wasting time’ by doing that, because objective reality is an illusion, and things only assume meaning depending on your attachment to them. 

Finally, something I like about Japanese and other Eastern cultures is that they are quite happy to celebrate impermanence. In Japan, you get an entire nation obsessing over cherry blossoms - a phenomenon that only lasts a few days; in the Himalayas, monks spend a ridiculous amount of time creating intricate sand mandalas, which will then be destroyed. In the West, we take a completely opposite view, and that’s one reason why we’re such hoarders and we give such special meaning to old movie ticket stubs, clothes we no longer wear, and hideous childhood crafts everybody’s secretly ashamed of.

(Also feelings of hurt and resentment which can dog us for years, even after the person we’re angry with is long dead.)

All of those techniques will hopefully lead to a quieter, calmer mind, which still experiences feelings but is not dominated by them. A concept we tend to associate with Buddhism, but that’s actually hailed as as the recipe to happiness in many cultures (through independent philosophical thinking or cross-contamination? that, I don’t know).

When you manage to overcome your own mind, you overcome myriad concerns, rise above all things, and are free. When you are overcome by your own mind, you are burdened by myriad concerns, subordinate to things, unable to rise above. Mind your mind; guard it resolutely. Since it is the mind that confuses the mind, don’t let your mind give in to your mind. (Suzuki Shosan, 1579-1655) 

I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free. (Nikos Kazantzakis, 1923)

The bitter truth about being mortal and self-aware is that saying goodbye to an old, beloved relative is not only part of life: it’s the best option for everyone involved. Living to eighty or ninety, having the opportunity, the time and the emotional skill to forge deep bonds of affection with those around you - that’s something we can all aspire to. But in order to fully understand and accept that, we need to reverse our traditional way of thinking.

Becoming more mindful and more tolerant of impermanence is a long journey, but I honestly believe it leads to a better life. I think the best thing you can do now, and what I’m trying to do myself, is to be there for your older relatives and deepen that connection, while also focusing on the life they will not see: you as an adult, as a parent perhaps, as an older person. Nurture your mind and soul, be curious, be passionate, be patient. Enjoy the present without fretting about the future or regretting the past. Breathe.

(Oh - and here is my favourite poem about grief - I find it helps.)