Writing

As we approach the Day of the Dead, I wonder, how often do activists think about death? Beyond empathy for anonymous deaths in far-off places, or grieving for lost comrades like Rachel and Carlo, how often do we consider our own mortality? Our culture seems to thrive on its refusal to face death, even while spreading its toxins and wars on a global scale. The irony is that this contradiction limits the fullness of our lives. For what gives life greater meaning than the knowledge that it will end some day?

At the age of twenty-six, death seemed far-off to me, as tangible as pensions and hip replacements – something that happened to other people. I was visiting the Findhorn spiritual community in northern Scotland, taking some space to think about Big Questions. Preoccupied with vocation and geography, mortality never crossed my mind. Even in an afternoon devoted to understanding death, it felt like an abstract and insignificant thing.

Seemingly to reinforce its irrelevance, a group discussion about death moved away from the topic nearly as soon as it began. I was in an argumentative mood that day, edgy from an earlier session where the teachers had challenged some of my deepest assumptions. They seemed persistently wrong, giving counterproductive, even damaging advice. As I grew more and more frustrated, I held my tongue, not wanting to dominate the group. To ease my agitation, I planned to catch the others at dinner and have a good rant.

Soon it was time to discuss evening plans – silence. As part of the workshop, we were not to speak from dinnertime that night until after breakfast the next morning. I had completely forgotten about the exercise, and it felt like a slap in the face. I was outraged! This whole business of contemplative solitude sounded like meaningless fluff to me. The teachers were obviously conspiring to prevent us discussing alternatives to their views. One by one, the rest of the group pinned “in silence” badges to their chests; I knew it was my last chance to speak.

“I have no problem keeping silent, but I feel a lot of resentment about the timing. I’ve really appreciated the opportunity to decompress after these difficult sessions by talking with people over meals. This afternoon we’ve talked about a lot of contentious issues, so I was particularly looking forward to tonight’s discussion. And now there’s no time for conversation until tomorrow afternoon, when I’ll probably have forgotten most of it. I feel like you’ve taken away something important, and I’m angry about it. I’m still going to participate in the silence, but I don’t agree with the timing.”

One of the teachers took a moment before answering. “The reason we go into silence tonight is to deepen our experience of looking at death. We’ve visited the cemetery, we’ve written our own obituaries, and in many ways this kind of silence is a bit like being a ghost: walking around, seeing people, but not being able to talk to them. It’s about connecting with yourself, and also connecting with the knowledge that you’re going to die some day.”

The realization slammed into my body like a tangible force, leaving me paralysed and breathless, in shock. There were things I wanted to say, but I could not speak anymore; ideas I wanted to share, questions I wanted to ask… My voice was cut off against my will – and someday, my life will be cut off, probably in the very same way, against my will.

The teacher went on: “Can I read into that word you used, contentious? It seems political to me. Like you’re suggesting that we’re forcing our opinions on you and stifling dissent.” I managed to squeak out, “yes, that’s how I feel.” Tears were streaming down my face, and a second icy realization began to bloom in the pit of my stomach. Sometimes – rarely – people are killed for spreading the kind of ideas I want to spread. Can I face that possibility and continue?

I thought of Rachel Corrie, Carlo Giulliano, and the other young activists who have sacrificed their lives for global justice. Did they choose their work with the full knowledge of what it might mean? What did they still want to say when they died?

As I pinned the “in silence” badge to my chest, I could not see through the tears. I wanted to wail with the grief of words unsaid, thoughts bottled up which might never find expression, phrases and paragraphs and stories that might stay trapped inside me forever. It was not about one night of silence; it was about the final silence that will come at the end. I was not ready for it, and I was deeply afraid.

Back in my room, I crawled under the covers and wept. I could have recorded the experience in my journal – but what was the point, if I was symbolically experiencing death? I scratch words onto paper to save them for later, for some time when I might polish them up to share with the world, or gaze at again with nostalgia. Someday I will reach a point when there will be no later. Time will run out. I wept even harder for the lost comfort of written words. I realized that death is the place from which I cannot write anymore.

Even in the silence mimicking death, my thoughts tumbled toward the future. By force of habit, I searched for words and phrases to describe experiences as they were happening, as though I might narrate them later. In the spirit of embracing death, I struggled to remain in the moment. No books, no computer, no pen and paper. No past and no future: only resounding echoes which left me confused and disoriented, unable to bear the weight of wordlessness.

But the next morning, the despair had transformed into a deep stillness. Grace. I was alive, and I knew what that meant. Soon I would be able to communicate again; soon I could hold pen to paper. It occurred to me that writing is like breathing: an essential reflex I take for granted. Being cut off, even for a little while, is unbearable. And yet the experience of being cut off awakened my gratitude for writing, and for life itself.

I wonder now whether such a painful experience is really necessary to appreciate what gives life its meaning. I discovered in Findhorn that I had gone far too long without attending to what I love. Encrusting layers of fear and cynicism had blocked it from all light and air, and in the process choked my spirit. Only when I came face-to-face with my own mortality did I finally break free. Only when I accepted the limits of my physical life did I discover a spiritual abundance that can nourish my work.

Somehow passion and death are two elements of the same cycle, and we who fight for social and ecological justice must embrace both if our endeavours are to ring true and lead to deep and lasting change. What brings meaning to our lives, individually and collectively? How can we live our dreams, right now? Finding meaning is an individual process that resonates far and wide, creating a space of nourishment in a world hungry for authenticity. For those concerned with social and ecological change, it’s easy to focus on tending to the world’s needs, without pausing to reflect on our own. But the two are not mutually exclusive.

If we can make space for the growth of our deepest passions, we can make space for the growth of the world we desire. We can find new and unexpected ways to place our talents in service to that world, not as a fantasy in the distant future, but as a reality in our everyday lives. If we can face the knowledge that our lives will someday end – probably sooner than we wish – our choices become much more meaningful, and paradoxically, our work can gain a new vitality. Can we feel as much at home in quiet contemplation as we feel on the barricades?

On the last day of the workshop, we held one last meditation. One of the teachers said, very quietly, “the purpose of your life is to live. The purpose of being here is to be here.” From somewhere, whether the depths of my unconscious, or some form of spirit, came an almost tangible voice, completing the sentence. “The purpose of being here is to be here – and to write about it. This is your task” To bear witness, to clarify, to chronicle. I used to feel inadequate, that I was not writing enough political material, that I was not being radical enough – but in our era of lies and confusion, writing from the heart is a radical act. In our era of fragmentation, striving towards wholeness is a radical act. As Starhawk once wrote, “In order to change ourselves, we must change the world. In order to change the world, we must change ourselves.”