Category: Death

I found out yesterday my 90-something year old neighbor passed away a couple weeks ago.

It was apparently of natural causes and while she was asleep.

And while I was just writing about how Lisa Lux was devoting all of her energy towards healing and squeezing every drop of presence out of life with what little time she had left… my 90-something year old neighbor apparently was frequently wondering what was taking so long.

Her husband had apparently passed away in the late 1970s and she eventually got to a point where she would ask her daughter… why do you think I’ve lived as long as I have? Why me? Why not my husband? Why not my grandchild—who died in his 20s? Why not somebody else?

And the truth is: we’ll never know.

What makes this life so very special is that we’ll never know.

And it’s the knowing this… the keeping death close in our minds… and not the opposite… that turns time into memories… energy into experiences… life into legacy…

Yesterday, as I was reflecting on the loss of my friend Lisa Lux, as I meditated closely on the thin line that separates life and death—me from death; her from life; and each of us from the opposite—and carefully allowed myself to enter that empathetic space of feeling what she might’ve felt and what I was surely feeling… I got abruptly interrupted three times.

…And each was by a different co-worker to talk to me about plastic gold coins.

See there was an event we were hosting at our martial arts school where the students could play arcade-style martial arts games to win plastic gold coins that they could turn in for prizes. And we didn’t have enough gold coins for the night. So my co-workers and I were scrambling to find solutions. Long story short, we were checking out and calling every local place that might sell them and keeping each other updated so we didn’t overlap efforts.

In no way was I upset about this.

But I did find it to be such a powerful analogy for the ways in which death hides behind life.

There I was… there we were (all of my co-workers knew Lisa Lux as well)… mourning the loss of our friend… except we weren’t able to because we kept getting ripped back to the urgent reality—the one where death ceases to exist—by one of the most trivial, insignificant, worthless of items here on this earth… plastic gold coins.

And if plastic gold coins can keep us from thinking about our mortality and death… just think about what even slightly more “important,” “significant,” and “worthy” things can do…

“Lux” was exactly right.

She was a light.

She was warm, vibrant, and kept away the dark.

She texted me, not even a month ago and said, “Hey I wanted to give you a health update. We came back from our family trip and I had routine scans. They ended up admitting me. Long story short there is nothin left they can do for me and that I don’t have much time left.”

I went and saw her that afternoon.

And even then… even after that text… as she laid there in that hospital bed…

She smiled. She talked about her plans for healing. She commented on how what we were watching was her favorite show.

She cried when we spoke of her son—as a stream of warm wax might run down the side of a well lit candle. His innocence and pure heart meeting the cold, cruel, and dark.

…But only because the world he knew—the one his mom worked so hard to build—was so much the opposite. Her wick touching the wicks of so many around them that what resulted was a brilliance of light—one that even the most cunning of darknesses struggled to fight.

But what was most brilliant about Lisa Lux… is that it was never a fight.

Not light vs darkness. Not us vs. them. Not her vs. cancer.

“Because when you fight, it fights back.” She said.

No.

It was simply an overflowing of warmth, vibrance, and light. From her to her son and husband… her to her friends and loved ones… her to acquaintances and even strangers.

Not to build an army. But to build beautiful light.

RIP. 🙏🏼

All it takes is an apple eaten a little too quickly…

A little too mindlessly…

For it to become lodged in your throat…

With not enough room to pass liquid, but just enough room to pass a pinch of air…

…For you to remember how fragile life is.

It took 15 minutes of coughing, spitting, and throat contorting to finally pass that apple clog.

And in each passing moment of pain and fear, I became increasingly aware of the tightrope of life I was walking.

…The same one that I’m always walking, but somehow perceive more like a curb… or sidewalk… or highway even—the longer I’m removed from run-ins with death.

But, don’t get it twisted…

The path we walk is not any wider than the width of a rope.

And each step needs to be taken deliberately and mindfully…

Because if it’s not…

All it takes is one misstep or slip up—an apple eaten wrong—for it to all go away.

Laying in bed the other night, I felt a wave of grief and paralyzing fear come over me as my mind drifted deep into the thought of death—the inevitable conclusion and reality of my life.

And I laid there with it for quite some time… Imagining the various ways it all might unfold for me.

I imagined the various ages I could be… I imagined the various ways it might occur… I imagined the types of regrets I might feel…

And it absolutely terrified me.

To think about this unimaginatively impossible occurrence happening only once… getting no do-overs or heads up as to when it’ll all come to an end… being gone for the rest of time as life continues on without me… being forgotten… being nothing…

…And then I woke up the next morning.

And not only did it feel like another chance… but it reminded me that sleep is a type of exercise in death. It’s time spent being completely unconscious and evaporated from reality… and there wasn’t even a single moment of fear from when I fell asleep to when I woke up.

Live your days as mini-lives unto themselves. Fulfill as much of your life as you can from that moment you wake until the moment you sleep. Exercise and familiarize yourself with death. And, as Leonardo da Vinci said, the rest should take care of itself: “As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death.“

Today, I attended Jayh’s funeral.

These were the things the people closest to him chose to highlight as they spoke about him and his life:

• His humor. They loved his wit, his sarcasm, and his sense of humor. He knew how to make people laugh and he did it often.

• He made people feel safe. And when you grow up in a rough neighborhood, this is one of the highest feelings a person can give another. Even one of the speakers who was at least 2x or maybe even 3x Jayh’s size said it. Jayh was a protector. Jayh was fiercely loyal. And Jayh would do anything for the people he loved. And he had a big heart, described by many as a heart of gold, that touched the lives of so many.

• He brought people together. He was the type of person to show up at your house and hang on the porch with you for hours on end. He was the type of person who would call to check in, crack a joke, set up a meet, talk crap, or talk life—real life. He would get people together to play football, basketball, music… and so many people talked about how hard it was going to be without him. They called him the general of the block because he was always leading everybody else towards each other. He was the center. He was the catalyst.

I share this in hopes that, even though you might not know Jayh, parts of him can continue to live through you.

Because whenever we chose to embody actions inspired by another, they get to continue to live through us.

A childhood friend of mine died of heart failure this past weekend—at 37 years old.

He was one of the most athletic kids I knew when I was growing up and was the living embodiment of tough. He didn’t take crap from anybody and could burn a hole through you with a single glance… and yet, he had one of the most contagious laughs you might ever hear. He was a leader and wasn’t afraid to express his full life force—in conversation, in football, in music… in any endeavor.

May the best of who he was carry on through those who knew him and may this message of mortality ripple its way to you with some urgency for living… for you to get busy expressing your full life force.

…Because tomorrow is promised to no one.