Contrasting news reports about two young men, one report astonishingly joyful, the other inexpressibly tragic, have moved me to ponder yet again some of the big issues in life.
The first young man, a 21-year-old named Patrick, was swept out to sea off Maui and feared lost. After some 15 hours of bobbing up and down in a life jacket, he was spotted by the crew of a Coast Guard helicopter and racheted up to safety. Patrick’s father heard the good news from the pilot of an airliner as he flew towards the Hawaiian Islands. There are no words to express the ecstatic relief that marked that day.
Paul, the second young man, graduated from Harvard College in June where he was celebrated for his intellectual gifts and vibrant personality. Late last month, he fell out of the sixth floor window of a New York City apartment where he had been sleeping. His death has devastated family and friends who loved and admired him. Like them, I find his loss cause for tears.
This unexpected rescue and this bizarre death draw from me amazement at the unequal outcomes in life. Why do some of us live so long while others disappear early on? It is enough to tempt me to endorse Shakespearean lines from King Lear memorized in college: “As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods / They kill us for their sport.”
But this grim sentiment does not come close to my considered philosophy. Even in the face of the world’s daily horrors, I continue to place great value on human life and believe in the ultimate power of love. Nor does my wonder at the great adventure dry up as the years accumulate.
In fact, the question, “Why am I still alive?” takes on renewed relevance with increased age. Already, I have been given 20 years more than my father had at his death. And many classmates in school and college have already died, while I still live.
The mystery of unequal lifespans urges further thought. When you find yourself outliving friends and family members, you sort out the reasons why it is worth living longer. As answers, it is tempting to offer various abstractions, in the manner of the philosophers.
Instead, let me suggest a much more simple and direct approach: You, like me, may be a spouse, parent, sibling, aunt or uncle, cousin, friend, neighbor, colleague. These roles count for more than we usually allow. When we depart finally, many of those on the other end of these relationships will miss us, thus affirming the value of these ties and the value of our life.
During a public dialogue with me four years ago, the scholar and writer Catherine Bateson gave a striking illustration of how important even one of these roles can be. Her mother, the anthropologist Margaret Mead, was one of the first people to write a living will. In it, she stipulated that, if she had suffered mental impairment or lost her mobility, she did not want anything done to extend her life.
This provision for her future angered Catherine, then a teenager, because her mother was saying that “it was not worth her while to be alive when she was no longer the famous Margaret Mead.” Catherine’s sharp response was: “But you’d still be my mother.”
You do not need to exercise all of the roles listed above to find meaning in your life. Even one of them can make a vital difference to you and to others. Parenthood, for instance: even when children have become fully adult, the relationship continues to be a support for sons and daughters, and ourselves.
Ideally, ties to family members and friends take on greater meaning as we age. Maturity has brought many of us to realize the value in being connected to others. Though they would no doubt retort that they do not need my pity, I tend to feel badly for the few misanthropic figures encountered in my neighborhood. Almost inevitably, as I see it, old age will leave them exposed to soulful melancholy, if not acute vulnerability.
Let me mention the neighbor’s role, one that is commonly undervalued. I do not blush to ask my own neighbors for favors that compensate for my deficiencies of body and mind. These chores range from screwing in a new light bulb in a porch roof, to advice about how to get my computer back online after some mysterious failure of connections.
By the same token, I take pleasure in offering to neighbors whatever talents might help them. Several times a year, I publish a neighborhood newsletter that is enriched by the varied talents of local residents. More significant, perhaps, when neighbors are away, I am ready to move their cars on our city’s dreaded street cleaning days.
Serving as spouse, parent, sibling, uncle or aunt, cousin, friend, neighbor, colleague ──not the worst of responses to life’s unsolvable mysteries.
Richard Griffin