Dreading Death

        Humans have been fascinated with and fearful of death for most of our existence. We are likely the only creature to be aware of the fact that the day will come when each of us dies, and so our inquiring mind ponders that fact and creates beliefs and stories of what might follow death. We are caught up in the effort to stay alive (as all animals are) and have a natural instinct to ward off our death. Throughout history people have dreamed of immortality as a way of cheating death. Our dread of dying has compelled humans to conjure up various stories of the afterlife. We don't want to believe that our existence simply ends, so we fashion beliefs of the hereafter.

        Eastern cultures have often dealt with the problem by conceiving of reincarnation, by which our soul inhabits a new body after death; thus, we do not face absolute termination. Western cultures, in contrast, have leaned towards some kind of afterlife, where our soul resides everlastingly. These different beliefs are often tied closely with religious teachings, in which some form of deity is in charge of our destiny.

The ancient Greeks were convinced that their lives—and deaths—were controlled by a pantheon of gods, who were very interested in humans. The gods played a major role in the fortunes and misfortunes of the Greeks—either favoring an individual or group, or choosing to harass them. Much of their lives were consumed by fretting over being punished by a god or rejoicing when being rewarded. Since the gods were capricious, it kept the Greeks off balance—never quite sure whether they'd be curse or blessed. The gods were also competitive with and jealous of each other, so you had to be careful not to piss off one god, as you curried favor with another.

This fear of the gods led the ancient Greeks to view the afterlife as a grim place—a place where one may be condemned to spend eternity in torment and suffering. There was a way to eventually inhabit a heaven-like existence, but most souls never got there, as the underworld gods seemed bent on abusing them. Thus, the lives of the Greeks were tainted by their dread of death.

One school of Greek philosophy, headed by Epicurus, took a very different stance on death. Epicurus maintained that it was foolish to experience so much anxiety and mental pain that arise from the fear of death and of the gods. He asserted that the gods were really not interested in the petty details of humans’ lives. He was, in fact, skeptical about even the existence of the gods. Regardless of whether the gods were real or not, he counseled that our life is largely under the control of each of us, and not the fickle whims of the immortals.

Thus, Epicurus maintained, if the gods do not interfere in our lives, they also would play no role in any kind of afterlife. Again, they have their own interests. Again, regardless of whether they exist or not, our life is our own responsibility... ours to make the most of, or waste. In other words, don’t blame your misfortunes on the gods. You are in control.

Furthermore, the fear of death robs us of the chance to make the most of our lives. The fear (or adulation) of the gods keeps us from fully maturing and taking charge of our lives. We are not puppets, but agents of our own destiny.

Epicurus did not come down firmly on the side of saying either the gods exist or do not, so he was not a card-carrying atheist. Rather, he said that it really didn't matter. If one lived a moral and frugal life, it would be one full of meaning and fulfillment. He also was ambivalent about the afterlife; again saying it doesn't really matter, since if you live the moral life, what happens after death—if anything—will be fine.

I find it fascinating that the human fear of death has led us to formulate stories about the afterlife—but these stories are overwhelmingly about hell, rather than heaven. The ancient Greeks constructed elaborate tales of what condemnation of the soul was like, after death. Dante's The Divine Comedy is a lengthy description of the soul's journey through hell. Why do we not have as thorough a description of what heaven is like? Is it because we are obsessed with death and dread finding our soul being subjected to everlasting torment? Fear seems to guide our lives far more than hopefulness.

Our Inimitable Nature

What makes us distinctively human? What is it in our human nature that separates us from all other animals? To begin with, let me refer to the dictionary for the definition of one’s nature: “the innate or essential qualities or character of a person or animal.” So our nature is what makes us us; the unique qualities that distinguish me from others—whether that be from my brother or we humans from animals.

There has been an enduring belief that we humans have a nature that is fundamentally different from the rest of the animal kingdom. Our religions and our myths often tell us this is so. But science has increasingly challenged these ideas by demonstrating that many of the differences are not nearly as stark as we once thought. I've written in this blog several times about how there is often little or no meaningful gap between us and animals—it's just a matter of degree.

But we really are different, aren’t we? Maybe we're not as special as we once thought, but surely we are distinct among the animal kingdom. But how? “New Scientist” magazine has recently listed six ways in which human nature is unique—six characteristics that are shared by all humans, which they say animals mostly lack. Again, some of these we differ only in degree, but that degree is relevant. 

1.     Being playful—although animals definitely play, they don't pursue as wide a variety of entertainment, or spend as much time enjoying themselves. We have more free time for play and we willingly congregate with unrelated strangers for entertainment. Our imaginations are very lively.

2.     Being scientific—we are inclined to sort, categorize, predict, and test our ideas. We do so in order to understand the world around us; we are innately curious. Our drive to ask “why” about phenomena is unique.

3.     Being legislative—all human societies form and operate by rules, and those rules can become complicated, and are often associated with taboos and etiquette. We are obsessed with kinship—to ensure rights and inheritance. Our rules are used to create marriage, family relationships, and incest taboos. We create elaborate rules of conduct.

4.     Being epicurean—we don't simply eat, we make a meal of it. We cook, having long ago realized that cooking food provides more calories for our enlarged brain. But we also make rituals around our meals, as we gather to share them.

5.     Being sexually clandestine—while animals engage in sex in front of each other, we do it in private. Unlike animals, women's ovulation is also clandestine, so they can be continually receptive to sex.

6.     Being gossipy—our language is far more complex than that of animals, so as we spend a lot of time talking about others, we enjoy sharing information about them. Gossiping for humans is rather equivalent to primate grooming, in that it can strengthen bonds. It oils the wheels of social interaction.

No sooner did I encounter this list of six qualities of unique human nature, than I found myself wanting to add a seventh: our relationship to death. We humans know that we will someday perish. It's inevitable; we can't escape death. Being able to look into the future we know it's coming. All animals are possessed with the urge to avoid death—the drive to stay alive is powerful. For animals, however, this drive is mostly manifested in the moment—simply that they do not wish to expire right now.

Not being able to project into the future, animals do not suffer from the anxiety of death that we do. We humans peer into the future and realize that death is coming and we can do little about it. We frantically try to push the thought further down the road, so we won't have to face it today. We try to tell ourselves that death is an unfortunate event that befalls other people, as our brain can literally shut down, when faced with our own death.

We have this propensity to shield ourselves from mortal truth; when we think about death, our brain can even tell us that the information is unreliable—which is a type of denial. We struggle to rationalize our brain's thoughts about death, despite the reality of death all around us. Death comes to others, but not to me, because I refuse to accept it.

So we fear death. We place sick people in hospitals and stash the elderly in nursing homes, so we don't have to face death. When we refuse to face it, we come to fear it even more. One common way we escape thoughts of death is to dive into busyness. We work long hours, party after work, constantly check our smart phones for messages, and buy stuff—all to help distract ourselves from facing the reality of death... or sometimes just the mundaneness of daily life.

So I would guess that there could be even more than these seven ways that human nature is unique among animals. It's a debate that will continue—shifting from time to time, as science offers new insights.

Distant or Dear?

We recently had our dog—in the prime of his life—suddenly die. He was only eight years old, and the model of health. We found his body in the woods, with no signs of harm, so we have no idea of the cause of his death. That mystery leaves a huge question hovering in the air—a question that is not likely ever to be answered. That nameless cause is unsettling, if not disturbing, and at times even haunting.

Over the last couple of weeks since his death, I have gradually come to accept the loss—now only having periodic moments of deep sadness come over me, rather than the shock and mourning I struggled with during the first few days. There are many moments in each day when my wife and I sorely miss his presence. In numerous ways he was truly a family member—despite being nonhuman. His absence hurts.

I have spent much time in contemplation and meditation, working through the experience and attempting to understand my various emotions and how appropriate they may be. How long does one mourn? When does dwelling on one's loss become an unhealthy obsession? What's the difference between grieving and feeling sorry for yourself? How soon can you expect to get over the death—whatever that means? How do you put into perspective the shock of the death of a beloved dog, compared to other losses you've had? Why does the pain persist, and when will it slip below some threshold that goes unnoticed for several days or more?

In the last few days I have come to realize that my dog's death has hit me harder than the death of some family members. How is it that I miss a canine friend more than a human who is related to me by blood? Am I being callous towards kinfolk, when I struggle more over the loss of a “mere” dog? These questions sit at the back of my mind, gnawing at my conscience at times.

There are two factors involved here, I believe: the affection and the care we feel for another being, due either to blood or proximity (or sometimes both). Some people would add another factor or settle the question easily: a human being is always worth more than an animal. That may be generally correct, but I long ago discarded such simplistic and hierarchical (if not racist) beliefs. Why should I care more about the death of a person I hardly know, than my beloved dog? Why should I care more about the death of my dog than a bird who crashes into my window and breaks its neck? Where do you draw the line?

It seems to me that proximity plays a significant role in how much I care. My dog was an integral part of my daily life. I interacted with him many times a day and our lives closely intertwined. How does that compare to when a cousin dies, who lives at a great distance and with whom I lost contact 20 years ago? Yes, I feel sympathy and sadness when I hear of the death of a migrant who perishes at sea, attempting to reach the relative safety of Europe. I feel a similar sadness when I hear about the death of that distant cousin. How do those levels of sadness compare? How should they? And why does the death of my dog hit me harder than either of these examples?

Each of us will respond differently to these questions. I don't believe there is a “right” answer that could apply for all of us. The feelings of loss and grief are very personal and situation dependent. Rather than seek answers, I believe it's more important to dwell with the questions and use them to probe our motivations and values.

Failing Feline

Our homestead cat Cecil seems to be, as the saying goes, “on his last legs.” His age is uncertain, because we selected him as an adult, at the local animal shelter, over 11 years ago. He might be 15? Maybe more. That's a reasonably long lifetime for a feline. Over the last couple of years he's been demonstrating that his time is running out. He's been failing at his homestead duties: keeping rodents at bay. His cognitive abilities—never very impressive—have been failing also.

He appears to be suffering from some kind of feline dementia, among other possible ills. He wanders about the house aimlessly, frequently pausing, as if he's lost his train of thought. Was he about to eat, or scratch, or lie down, or go outside? Wandering across the floor, he'll change his direction suddenly, as if an opposing thought pops into mind. I'm trying hard to avoid calling him a dumb cat. 

We humans adopt a wide variety of critters whose minds are quite diminutive and then project onto them cognitive abilities that are far beyond what they're capable of. For example, a few decades ago some people even wanted to ascribe emotions to their pet rock.

So our resident feline has been delivering the message that his health—both physical and mental—is failing. As we would do for any member of our human family, we've tried to do for Cecil: allowing his increasing eccentricities to be. The process has often tested our patience—as well as his. He recently crossed a line that saw us choosing to designate him as a full-time outdoor cat—primarily in an attempt to preserve our sanity, as he demanded to go out or come back in, for what seemed to be more than a dozen times a day. Shortly after crossing through the doorway, he'd look around in confusion, and quickly demand to go back. In addition, he'd occasionally decorate a corner of the house with a deposit of cat poop. The urge probably came upon him too quickly to take it outdoors. It simplifies things for all of us, if he remains outside.

Cecil is slowly wasting away. He eats a fraction of what he once consumed, sleeps most of the time, keeps close to the house, and gets skinnier each day. We pet him to comfort him, noting every protruding bone on his scrawny body. His coat is disheveled and dirty looking. He's loosing hair. He no longer does much grooming. Fortunately, he does not exhibit any signs of pain. He simply looks confused. His meow—once loud and insistent—is now soft and pleading.

In other words, we have been engaged in a kind of death watch—hoping that Cecil, with the assistance of Mother Nature, will soon decide to let go and peacefully pass away. He's taking much longer than we expected. (Longer than we wished?)

As another incredible example of Cecil's decline, last evening I looked out the window, noting that he was in his current favorite position: lying on his side, dozing on the patio. When we see him recumbent and lying so still, we often pause to see if we can discern him breathing... to see if that spark of life is still present. What caught my eye at that moment was a bird—a titmouse—furiously pecking away at Cecil's back. How bizarre! A bird assaulting a cat? Was this bird expressing some sort of death wish? I quickly saw that the bird was collecting nesting material, as its bill was getting crammed with cat fur. My God! Cecil had died, and the bird was the first scavenger to come calling!

I went outside for a closer look, just as Cecil demonstrated that he still possessed a spark of life. He suddenly awakened, and turned around startled, as the bird flew off with a beakful of cat hair. Cecil looked at me, slowly turned back, and again fell into deep sleep. I guess his demise will wait for another day... and maybe another nesting bird.

[Postmortem: Cecil did finally pass away a few days ago. He died in our arms, peacefully.]

Three Ancient Teachers—Part 2

The second message: Democritus' atomistic and natural teachings interestingly connect directly into my second point: death is not what people fear or say that it is. This second idea was promulgated primarily by my second Greek teacher, Epicurus. Starting with the concept of atoms and how that led to the idea that our world can be understood by natural events, he came to the conclusion that previous beliefs that the world was governed by supernatural forces were wrong. In his time, supernatural meant that the gods were the driving force in the world—the gods decided (often in their capricious manner) how things were constructed and how they behaved. Later (in the West) the Greek and Roman gods were replaced by the sole Abrahamic God.

If the gods are in charge of our existence, then we are susceptible to their will. Our lives are literally controlled by their whims and wishes... and there wishes are often whimsical. Epicurus said, however, that there are natural explanations for it all; it's not the gods stringing us along, thus our lives are really in our own hands. We are in control and are responsible for ourselves. This is a very liberating idea! 

Those who believed that the gods ruled, believed that their lives—and their deaths—were dictated supernaturally. More to the point, what happened to you after your death, was also in the hands of the gods. If they wished, they could torment you forever, and you had little alternative, except to try your best to curry their favor in this life. Epicurus saw that the anxiety over this belief caused people a lot of torment and filled them with fear.

A more modern expression of this concept has recently been offered by Yuval Harari, the Israeli author of a recent groundbreaking book, Sapiens. He makes the point that, in recent centuries, modern interpretations no longer see death as the fundamental source of meaning of life. Previous beliefs—from Christians all the way back to the Romans and Greeks—held that the meaning of life comes from what happens to you after death. Instead, he maintains that modern ideologies—such as socialism, liberalism, feminism, and communism—teach us that life has meaning on its own; we don't need death for meaning. It is interesting that my three favorite philosophers reached this modern conclusion millennia ago. It's yet another way that shows they were far ahead of their time.

Epicurus felt that he had—through his natural explanations of the world—shown that belief in an afterlife was unfounded. There are no supernatural events—in this world or the hereafter. You live and then you die. Quit fearing what will happen after you die, since there will be no you. Put your attention to what you're doing while you are alive. I don't think he actually said it, but one message I take from his teaching is, regardless of what happens after I die, if I put attention toward living a moral life, I'll be OK. The main point: I can take comfort in the fact that I will not be tricked by the gods. Epicurus in fact never denied the existence of the gods—he simply maintained that they have their own affairs to attend to, so why should they waste time tormenting humans? In today's monotheistic worldview, I feel the same. I neither believe in nor deny the existence of God. If there is a God, I can't see why God would bother with my trivial life. It's my responsibility to use it wisely and morally, or lose it. Why would God interfere?

The third message: Live simply, rather than pursue money or power. This idea follows quite closely from the first two propositions. If we're all made of atoms and thus are all united (are all made of the same stuff), what does that tell me about how to treat my world and my fellow humans? If I abuse my world, am I not abusing myself? Democritus, Epicurus, and Lucretius all reached the same conclusion: that treating our world with respect means that we should live a frugal life. To exploit the world in search of wealth is simply selfish and wrong.

We are part of the natural world. We live and die, as all creatures do. We need not fear death or the gods. So how do I fit most sensibly into this incredible world? I do so by having regard for it; by nurturing it and my fellow creatures. These three masters realized that this truth of our being an integral part of the natural world meant that we share the same aims all creatures do: to seek happiness and contentment, while avoiding pain and suffering. Living simply and frugally is an excellent way to achieve those aims.