The Art of Living

Late in my last run as a Jehovah's Witness, I heard a song by former Beatle George Harrison. The song was called "The Art of Dying." This song's lyrics had echoes of eastern philosophy and religion lying under a festive, almost party-like instrumentation. I hated it. I tuned the lyrics out as soon as I realized they advocated some kind of fluffy notion of death. The Art of Dying? Yeah right. There is no art in death. It's a horrible thing that God will eliminate. What kind of fool would think there could be art in losing everything you have? 

"There'll come a time when all of us must leave here

Then nothing sister Mary can do

Will keep me here with you

As nothing in this life that I've been trying

Could equal or surpass the art of dying

Do you believe me?"

I did not believe him. 

By the time I found this tune, I'd seen my father and Grandmother pass away. There was no grace in their exits. There was no art to their departures. There was only harsh medical jargon jumbled with final exclamations "Feeding tubes", "infection", "cancer", metastasis" and finally, "months to live." 

Death was ugly, painful, and unnatural.  

In relation to the aforementioned deaths, there was more woven into how it was all processed. There was an unspoken lamentation that "this generation" was indeed passing away. Every human being fights for their survival, however, multi-generational Jehovah's Witnesses face an additional fight for the doctrine they have preached for the better part of their lives. Not having been able to ever have a quiet moment of reflection on their living experience, they must confront a reality that was never supposed to be. As the frailty sets in; they must surrender to the truth that they were not living in THE last days, however, they were living in THEIR last days.

I believe this is the true fear of any aging witness and that there is an unspoken understanding that the world needs to end in their lifetime. 

This is the one challenge to their faith that they cannot run from. Sadly, they have no mentors who are willing to tell them that they will one day have to reconcile the supposed imminence of their deliverance, with a life that is coming to an end.

The plethora of maladroit scriptural terms of endearment does a disservice to aging and dying members. "A Grey head is a crown of beauty" does not wash away the filth of "millions now living will never die." 

The sounds bites resonate up to death and through the blithe eulogies that inevitably follow, "He died serving Jehovah",  "We need to be there when he wakes up." As if they know. As if it is all the truth. The man who gave my father's eulogy was a small, round and gruff man. Growing up, I never recalled hearing him speak about anything that did not involve the bible by way of the Watchtower. Those conversations were always loud and boisterous. His gestures were balled fists and pointing figures. His brow was always furrowed and he was prone to stepping away from the podium after a particularly blistering set of exclamations. 

This man projected the ultimate holiness and a type of spiteful enthusiasm that made you feel less spiritual by virtue of his own stratospheric piety. However, the approaching reaper seems to have dampened his fervor as well. 

After he delivered my father's eulogy, his life spiraled downward. He lost his own wife to cancer and was disfellowshipped at nearly 75 years old. The last I heard of his him, he was reinstated and totally estranged from his family. He now sits alone in a small apartment muttering the same two questions over and over "Will they disfellowship me?", "Are they going to disfellowship me?" 

It seems an abrupt mental decline is a hallmark of the elderly and middle-aged alike in this community.

I can't count the times I've heard the term "Brother X had a nervous breakdown" or "Sister Y was found living outside." It seems that watching death approach while the carrot of eternal life is dangled before you might take a toll on your mind. 

I have to imagine that every person, whether in a cult or not, has regrets in their life; especially near the end, however, the watchtower hopes that its members never confront the regrets of their life outside of how it relates to the amount of time a person spent being a slave for their cause. 

There is no introspection for a missed dinner, a missed birthday or a missed existence. Death is for the wicked and regret is for those without hope of redemption. The singular goings-on of the world is nothing more than the inconsequential happenings in the lives of people with no tomorrow. 

This is where the ego of a Jehovah's Witness exists. The meek demeanor they cloth themselves in hides a vile conceit. In truth, they believe that they are better than death and by default of their presupposed immortality will not soil their hands in the sinuous corridors of this life. It's as if finding the beauty in the now is slight to the life to come. 

Just as they are never able to mourn those they've lost, they also never confront their own ends and the varied implications as it has to do with their hopes of a new world.

"There'll come a time when all your hopes are fading

When things that seemed so very plain

Become an awful pain

Searching for the truth among the lying

And answered when you've learned the art of dying"

I eventually made my way out of the Watchtower, and all the music I'd felt guilty for listening to started to sound so much different. There were albums I bought and threw away and bought again. My indoctrination was a maddening tug o war, that often would often rend my mind asunder. 

I wanted to live, but I was afraid to die and at the same time I wanted to die but was afraid to live. 

I kept listening to the song and each time I could make out a new thread that was linked to the quest I was on; a quest I share with many other survivors. 

A quest to relax my fear of death, while trying to live a full and meaningful life. As always, my indoctrination still walks along with me. Death is still a nightmarish adversary pacing outside of the fences that surround my life.

I have a recurring daydream where I'm old, sick and dying. I've lived a good life and I'm surrounded by family and friends, however, the only thought on my mind is the understanding that this is the end. This daydream used to be a recurring nightmare, where I had forgotten to pray before I went to sleep and subsequently died in my sleep because I was selfish. 

I no longer believe in sin or any god's however, the overwhelming emphasis on death being an avoidable episode still causes me to have an unreasonable level of fear regarding my life ending. 

I don't know if I'll ever be able to reach Mr. Harrison's level of optimism regarding death, however as I've written this entry I've found something new in the lyrics; I've come to see that life is our canvas. Every bit of air we inhale, the love we've shared and lost, all the pain we've endured and the holes we've climbed out of, are the colors on our palettes. Death is nothing to fear. It is the last dab of shimmering gold on the masterpiece of our lives. 

The Art of Dying 

By George Harrison

"There'll come a time when all of us must leave here

Then nothing sister Mary can do

Will keep me here with you

As nothing in this life that I've been trying

Could equal or surpass the art of dying

Do you believe me?

There'll come a time when all your hopes are fading

When things that seemed so very plain

Become an awful pain

Searching for the truth among the lying

And answered when you've learned the art of dying

But you're still with me

But if you want it

Then you must find it

But when you have it

There'll be no need for it

There'll come a time when most of us return here

Brought back by our desire to be

A perfect entity

Living through a million years of crying

Until you've realized the Art of Dying

Do you believe me?"