Good head
I inherited my mother’s wavy hair – which I straighten – and the intensity of her eyes when I get mad. I inherited my father’s slow internal clock (Me, hurry up?), his small lips and the way he stuck his tongue out every time he concentrated on something. But last night, after reviewing my two MRI’s (scary, claustrophobic machines), my doctor told me that I have not inherited the brain weakness which caused the cerebrovascular accident that killed my mother and some of her sisters. « Your blood vessels are beautiful », the doctor told me, and it was the best compliment I was ever offered. Still, I walked out of her office feeling heavy, and only felt the tension go away when a relieved B. grabbed my face with his strong hands and said: « Let me kiss you, good head ».
I have had quite a few occasions to think about death in the last few years, and I have thought about it a lot in the last three weeks, for obvious reasons. We know nothing about death, we don’t understand it, and our modern societies simply deny death and help us live with the false belief that we will be around forever. When I was a teenager, I read one of Castaneda’s books and something he wrote stayed with me. He said that we should always walk around imagining death walking next to us, one arm-length away. Instead of finding this creepy, I thought it made a lot of sense, even though I knew it would be hard to achieve.
During these past weeks of war and worries, I have at times felt very aware and I think I have embraced the joys of life much better than I manage to when I feel safe. I don’t mean to sound depressing or lecturing, but I think the only way to be fully aware of the beautiful strangeness of life is to be aware of its end. I have noticed that people who have experienced grief are often the most present and cheerful people I know.
