-by Nigel Best
What makes people despair is that they try to find a universal meaning to the whole of life, and then end up by saying it is absurd, illogical, and empty of meaning. There is not one big, cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person. To seek a total unity is wrong. To give as much meaning to one's life as possible seems right to me. For example, I am not committed to any of the political movements which I find full of fanaticism and injustice, but in the face of each human being, I act democratically and humanly.
-The Diary of Anais Nin Volume 1, 1931-1934
Just a week out from the holiday celebrations, and on such a warm, winter’s day, he’d gone out to the garage, thrown a rope over a wooden crossbeam, styled a noose that went around his neck, stepped off a ladder, and that was that. He hanged himself. No note, no apparent reason, no indication of reaching out for help. The family and extended family, post the visitation, are drinking and eating together. Some tears. Some laughter. There are the inevitable questions that will forever go unanswered. There will be the guilt to be carried by each which resides in the common phrase, “If only I had known.” ”Why didn’t he call?” “What could I have done?” “I hadn’t spoken to him in years.” “I saw him just recently. Gave him my phone number and asked him to call me.” “Who would want to kill themselves on such a beautiful day?” From one quarter, “It’s a selfish act. I have no sympathy.” Someone had placed a bottle of bourbon into the open coffin. Rather than distracting, it actually drew attention to the corpse’s exposed, elongated neck from a suicide by hanging. Emotions, however, will have to be put aside. It’s December. The holiday season’s festivities, however celebrated, are bearing down. Children will demand happiness as they open gifts, run around the house with carefree abandon, play outside in the snow, shouting at the tops of their lungs. Parents have to suspend their despair as the families skate together on the local pond, holding hands with the younger children. Now, in the quiet of the late evening, there is that personal time I can have to reflect on his life. I allow myself some time to pass. I barely seem to have known my brother. “Did you suffocate yourself? Did your neck snap? Did you think of any of us at all before you topped yourself?” “Jeezeus!” I think. “These thoughts are as dark as this night. Get out of my head.” These were natural thoughts about a suicide. I’d been advised I’d think them. Natural or not, though, I didn’t want this mad tyranny drifting around my skull. Thus, Traumatic as it’s been, unfortunately for him, my mind cannot help but become distracted by the inevitable end-of-year list of the past twelve months of headlines compiled and written into my notebook where I contain such things “Death of the Republic.” “Death in Ukraine.” “Death of migrants trying to escape to the west.” “Man put to death for protesting on behalf on women’s rights.” “Journalists killed for writing truth about corruption.” “Mass shooting at bar patronized by gay men and women.” “School shooting leaves children and teachers dead.” “Homeless woman found dead on the coldest night of the year.” “Food bank usage at all-time high. Some people may starve to death due to lack of money to buy food.” “Opioid deaths continue to rise.” “Family members dead after apparent murder/suicide.” So much death again.
I’ve dangled the idea before that if there is a stairway to a heaven, I have no doubt it’s built on the bodies of the innocent. Alright, I relent, but the darkness won’t win.
I raise my glass, and looking out at the nighttime, I quote Dylan Thomas’ refrain, “Rage! Rage against the dying of the light.” What is learned from that which has gone is that it can and will hurt for a long time.That which is to be faced may not always be pleasant. Heed any cries for help, no matter how distant or close. No matter from whom or where. For now, there are preparations to be made; After all, another year of railing against tyranny, personal or public, will soon be upon us. There will be victories. In these, there can and shall be the meaning of lives well lived. As the grey of the winter morning begins its tilting at the darkness, here’s to thoughts of something better in 2023.