In the Event of My Death: A Meditation in 500 Words

During time spent on lock down in the 2020 coronavirus outbreak, I produced a series of character studies, short shorts, poems, and vignettes in 500 or fewer words. Enjoy!

In the event of my death wash my body like they used to, back when bodies were laid out in the parlor for “viewing” so that everyone could come and certify that the person had, in fact, died. Our culture tells us not to view the dead, to “remember how they were.” But seeing death brings closure. It allows us to embrace the end. So sponge away the effluvia of dying, weigh my eyelids down with coins, prop my mouth closed.

Then bury me in the forest. I do not need a coffin or shroud, just place me into the earth and cover me with soft soil. Return me to the ground.

We are all made of stardust, all of us, everything alive and everything not alive. All that is.

Death is not the opposite of life; it’s the opposite of birth, a completion of the cycle. That’s all death is: not-life. From the stars we are made and to them we will return. Like water returning to the oceans.

I need no memorial. I need no headstone or marker. I need no flowers or stone. I need no memory to prove that I existed. I did, and that is enough, and it matters not. Silence is my epitaph.

As a child I wanted to be famous. That’s one lesson the American Dream teaches us: that we all deserve to rock stars and movie gods. Fame will make us happy. Important. Immortal.

As an adult I learned to recognize all that as ego. It’s meaningless and pointless. We will all be forgotten. The goal of my life is to leave no impression, to be a ripple upon water. Leave only footprints we are advised. I don’t want to leave even that.

But don’t you want to be a positive influence upon others? you might ask. That’s impossible, I reply. No one can influence anyone else, we are simply present when others grow. Each individual is responsible for their own transformation. I am merely an observer. I am wind upon the grass. If I had not lived, someone else would have. Interchangeable humans.

It is a great relief to recognize that the world would not be any different had I never existed. Nor will it change in any significant way once I am gone. Only my words will be left. And those will fade, too.

So bury me in the woods where no one ever goes. Leave me to birdsong and raindrops. Let woodland plants grow from my compost, let soil creatures break my body apart into nutrients. Let me become earth, broken apart, rearranged, reconfigured. There is no me to destroy. None of us are anything; all things are nothing. And out of nothing everything is made. Ex nihilio. Nihil est.

It’s a koan, the underlying paradox of existence. The truth is paradox, Kierkegaard tells us. Paradox is truth. In the event of my death, bury me in the forest. In the event of my death leave me be.