A lesson on Appreciation, and why I only seem to "get it" at certain times.

I cannot help but ponder my own mortality as of late. It's nothing new; I've been doing it intermittently since my entry into adolescence. These past few days, though, mortality has become salient in my mind. Perhaps it has something to do with the young girl in Toronto killed by a bullet - in my old neighbourhood, no less - for the mere crime of smoking a cigarette outside a bar at the wrong time. Or perhaps it has something to do with my ailing neighbour who spends each day of the work week in a hospital being bombarded by radiation to send his cancer into remission. Perhaps a combination of both, or, just maybe, ever pervasive thoughts on why I am here and what I am doing.

Lately, it occurred to me that, in an instant, I could be no more: this fleshy exterior will no longer touch; these ears will no longer hear; this tongue and nose will no longer taste and smell; these eyes will no longer see; this brain will no longer think; this body will no longer feel. The reel of this epic film played before me can so easily grind to a halt, and the light on the projector snuffed out. One day, I can wake as usual, proceed through my morning ritual, leave my home to venture to school and be struck dead by a passing motorist; or I can wake to learn that I am stricken with a terminal illness; or I can simply not wake at all.

Pondering one's own mortality is an amazing thing, for it prompts the individual to see the surrounding world very differently, with a heightened sense of awareness. For instance, as I sat on the bus, I gazed out the window and observed all the beauty unfolding before my eyes: the trees swaying in the wind, children playing in a park, women and men in deep thought at the bus stop, and so on. It's rather unfortunate that the prospect of never perceiving these sorts of things again through this set of sensory inputs serves as the impetus for my living in the present moment; then again, perhaps it isn't such a bad thing to perceive oneself as a fragile, mortal being who will one day leave this form, for it is this fragility that gives meaning to our lives (thus spoke Ray Kurzweil, I believe).

Furthermore, it also prompts me to wonder what I'm doing with my life, and what I've accomplished. True, I haven't been here that long - twenty-eight and one-half years, to be precise; how "long" it seems depends on whom you ask, I suppose - but nonetheless, it is a long enough period of time to have done something constructive; so what exactly have I done? Become "educated"? What does that mean? Spend so many years in such-and-such institution, paying a hefty sum of money for the privilege of reading books and performing for tokens of accomplishment? Work? What sort of "work" did I do, aside from collecting a pay cheque while sitting at a desk? Service? Sure, I dropped a few dollars into a few cups over the years, and I signed a few cheques to a few charitable organizations as well, but was that really meaningful? Did I really engage the society that needs my help? During my twenty-eight-plus years of taking, did I give anything back?

Moreover, furthermore, also... argh, I'm no good with syntax. I suppose that's why my communication skills are so poor. Alas, I'll get on with it.

As I write this, I also think of the mortality of my loved ones, as well as how my own mortality affects them. What would I do should I receive a telephone call or letter informing me that so-and-so is now deceased? Would I weep knowing I would never see, hear, be in the presence of said person again, for as long as I shall live? More importantly, did I cherish the time with this person while s/he was still alive? Did I make every effort possible to span time with her/him? Did I demonstrate my appreciation for having her/him in my life? Or did I merely take her/him for granted, as I so readily do with so many people I know? Worse, did I deliberately avoid her/him for fear of letting this person into my life? And how would my loved ones react to my passing? Did I care enough about them to have an uplifting impact on their lives? Did I care enough about them to do all that was within my power to stay alive, stay healthy for them? Or did it simply have to happen?

Coming to terms with the inevitable end ought to motivate me to get myself in gear and do something meaningful, for every moment I spend here, every breath I take, is precious, even if it spent on something as seemingly diminutive as calling a friend or relative to see how things are going, or assisting a stranger in need while walking to the bus stop. For so long, I have sought to make excuses for not doing something to better serve my fellow being and the home we share; how many more excuses will I be afforded before my time runs out?

Conversely, maybe there is only so much I can do in this form; maybe the demands of this world are overwhelming for my current physical body, for I have allowed my life to be riddled with anxiety and depression and diffidence and insalubrious habits to a point where I am debilitated beyond repair; maybe I will better serve this world in another form. I don't know if this should be cause for alarm; I hope I can continue for many more years in the form in which I currently exist, but what if that simply cannot be? I have come to believe that I am not the machine of flesh and bone I use to navigate through this medium we call "existence", so perhaps my contribution to the betterment of society is not measured in this, but across several lifetimes, and that I should not be so concerned if this rickety old shit box one day craps out on me.

Regardless of what might happen to me, there is still and will always be beauty in this realm worth preserving; regardless of how long I am permitted to experience it - ten years ago, while mired in melancholy, I would never have envisioned myself saying this - I am grateful for having experienced it.

I hope I wasn't a complete screw-up.

Wait, did I just write my own obituary?