When I think of starlight shining on earth years after the star itself has died in space, I wonder how many wishes are made on ghosts.
It’s human nature to want to receive something after it is no longer in front of us. A lot of shit country songs have been written about it.
Distance brings fondness. Death brings acceptance. But what if we live in a culture that denies death?
Sit with me in the paradox we call Western society.
We LOVE gory war movies and video games. (Arm scene. Saving Private Ryan. Every scene. Grand Theft Auto.)
Dateline whodunnits keep us glued to our couches on Friday evenings.
And show me a millennial woman who doesn’t subscribe to at least three true crime podcasts.
We’re fascinated and obsessed with death. We willingly consume it in our precious free time.
Yet when it involves our bubble, we don’t know what to do with it.
Grievers don’t know where to put the weight of loss, and the grief-adjacent nervously comfort
through platitudes and euphemisms hoping the mood will magically lift.
Why is death only uncomfortable when it’s personal?
And is it possible to love someone, like they’re dead, while they are still living?
My advice to the bereaved and bereaved-to-be: Expose yourself to death in real-world ways.
Tour your local funeral home. Have coffee with a hospice nurse. Read a book about Indonesian death rituals.
Most importantly, worship what is in front of you before it becomes cosmic dust.