It’s so interesting to think about the ways we impact people lives. Especially the ways we’re not aware of. I feel like the book you mentioned is wonderful in that it inspires people to think about that. And I think this piece is wonderful because you took that idea and turned it into art.
I also really appreciate how regularly you are open and vulnerable it makes your writing very emotive and endearing.
It’s both a gratifying and worrying thing to contemplate the impact we have on others without knowing it. This was a rare moment where I found peace between the two.
I appreciate that observation. Vulnerability once terrified me, but with practice I’ve gotten better. What used to be written for one person is readable by anyone. I still squirm sometimes, but openness and vulnerability are two things I can model so I try.
I remember reading that book, Five People You Meet in Heaven, the summer of COVID, when I walked into Ms. Karl's classroom full of books and she recommended I read it as a short philosophy story. It's one of those books that have always left a soft impression. Every time I think about it, I don't recall any strong feelings, since my experience with grief is limited and my emotional intelligence as a sophomore was nonexistent. I don't think if I read it again I would gain more value than what I already understand from its message, that we will always affect people around us in interminable ways.
From that book, I mostly remember the middle and last characters. The stories they told the man about themselves, rather than what Eddie should or should not have done, is what allows him to release his grief and accept the integrity of his life. This is to say that rather than allowing Eddie to focus on his problems, they take away his burdens, which is most poignantly illustrated by the river-washing scene at the end. It's a very romantic view of the afterlife I can have faith in. I also wondered like you said if perhaps there is a way to see future people in our heavens, since time is limited by the living's linear perception and surely at death we can transcend those sorts of spatiotemporal bounds? That does get more into science fiction, but it is a nice thought.
As for your other point about feeling bad over gaining from someone else's loss, the logic honestly struck me at first glance as very counterintuitive. This isn't to say that how you thought of it was wrong, but it's not quite right, and I don't know how else to express the ambivalence in that measurement. There's something very gray there (hm yes in more ways than one) that makes me think the entire scenario through. Dead people are dead. They can't consent, or give their opinions, or add their mark to the world - except, they do through those that survive them, who knew them, who want to do things to honor them, which THEN makes me wonder, what is the fine line between the living and the dead? There are many living humans who do not contribute to their surroundings in any way others would consider living, and there are many dead people who continue to leave an impact on the world through actions those who knew them have undertaken in their name or for their reason. How do we grieve the living and live with the dead? It's a very difficult topic for me to say anything about because I have no experience with considering it.
However, it's not a zero sum game. There's no such rule that because someone has died, others are automatically copyright struck from "benefitting" from their loss. There are opportunists, sure - hundreds of thousands of plots where a dead lover leaves a chance for another to slip in, or a death in the family creates some sort of opening - but overall, death is as necessary a part of life as synthesis and giving back the present perspective that would have never happened under a series of what ifs discounts what has already happened. I hope this doesn't sound harsh, it is more like I am trying to turn over my thoughts in the process of writing them, but I do truly believe that it isn't selfish to enjoy the fruits from someone else's loss. Maybe I'm cynical. Despite the negatives from subtracting a positive, sometimes two negatives make a positive, so I think there can be good news in death, even in situations as terrible as the one you described, and it does seem like this is one of those tough but overall narratives where things did not get worse. Maybe I'm just ignorant.
A sense of relief emanates from the end of this piece. I understand how complicated it feels to write about your relationships. It is tough, and it never feels like enough, especially when people are involved in their neverending facets of this and that. Overall, I'm glad you could find something fulfilling, or as you like it, make as complete story as you can covering this part of your life.
Thanks for the thoughtful response. I was a little bothered initially by “this isn’t quite right”, but that’s the conclusion I came to as well. The line I’m missing in here is “Why did I benefit instead of someone she loved?” but that thought is broken too: Eliza benefitted, theoretically. It’s further proof of a broken logic, but feelings aren’t always so consistent. (Feeling guilt is consistent with how I was raised, though.)
I would probably push back on the idea of treating death pragmatically. “Death is a part of life” feels suitable for losing a loved one in their nineties but it’s no consolation when I fifteen-year-old dies from being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Ditto for the “Everything happens for a reason” mindset: if the reason is some random freshman at UC Davis finding a friend, does that really soothe the ache of loss for those who loved someone taken too soon? Those are clichés at this point, but they also don’t strike me as convincing. Death is a sucky part of life in a situation like this, and a nebulous, unknowable “reason” doesn’t justify (for me) a flame extinguished early. If they comfort someone, especially the bereaved, wonderful…but I’m not sure they offer the peace they intend to. That might say more about where I’m at religiously now than anything, but that’s my cynicism talking, and that’s also at the core of my intersection with Sarah Lekven: if I’m that “reason”, that…sucks? That doesn’t *feel* fair—even after conversations with Eliza, writing several drafts, and talking it through podcast style.
Since, as you say, the dead can’t speak, all we can do with unresolved “business” with them is construct a vision for ourselves. I erased a section about the reservoir of optimism Sarah Lekven incepted in me—since something so good did arise out of something so bad—but even that is engineered by me. My verb of choice is “to manufacture” for silver linings because we have to assume some authorship over their invocation. It’s a choice to look past a sky of dark clouds and focus on the sunlight just starting to creep through. Sometimes we have to look really, really hard to find even a hint of light. I didn’t intend to end where I did here in that assurance that if she could, Sarah Lekven would be happy, but I like where it landed. It is also wholly my interpretation. It feels right, but I will never know, barring Albom having greater insight into the afterlife than I expect.
I’m glad you enjoyed and remember well his book. I considered rereading it, but this piece required the remembered version more than a recent read, since the lessons I took twenty years ago informed this story. I too remember the fifth—initially, I only remembered the fifth! It’s such a generous place to land in, though. It feels even now like almost too much forgiveness. But that’s probably present me intruding more than what the story does.
In any event, thank you again for the thoughtful response. I think I got something out of reading, reflecting, and responding to it.
It’s so interesting to think about the ways we impact people lives. Especially the ways we’re not aware of. I feel like the book you mentioned is wonderful in that it inspires people to think about that. And I think this piece is wonderful because you took that idea and turned it into art.
I also really appreciate how regularly you are open and vulnerable it makes your writing very emotive and endearing.
Thanks Michael :)
It’s both a gratifying and worrying thing to contemplate the impact we have on others without knowing it. This was a rare moment where I found peace between the two.
I appreciate that observation. Vulnerability once terrified me, but with practice I’ve gotten better. What used to be written for one person is readable by anyone. I still squirm sometimes, but openness and vulnerability are two things I can model so I try.
Thanks for your continued support, Michael.
Ok thx for making me cry 💯
You’re welcome! :) It’s reassuring to know that you did. Means I conveyed some of my emotion around this.
I remember reading that book, Five People You Meet in Heaven, the summer of COVID, when I walked into Ms. Karl's classroom full of books and she recommended I read it as a short philosophy story. It's one of those books that have always left a soft impression. Every time I think about it, I don't recall any strong feelings, since my experience with grief is limited and my emotional intelligence as a sophomore was nonexistent. I don't think if I read it again I would gain more value than what I already understand from its message, that we will always affect people around us in interminable ways.
From that book, I mostly remember the middle and last characters. The stories they told the man about themselves, rather than what Eddie should or should not have done, is what allows him to release his grief and accept the integrity of his life. This is to say that rather than allowing Eddie to focus on his problems, they take away his burdens, which is most poignantly illustrated by the river-washing scene at the end. It's a very romantic view of the afterlife I can have faith in. I also wondered like you said if perhaps there is a way to see future people in our heavens, since time is limited by the living's linear perception and surely at death we can transcend those sorts of spatiotemporal bounds? That does get more into science fiction, but it is a nice thought.
As for your other point about feeling bad over gaining from someone else's loss, the logic honestly struck me at first glance as very counterintuitive. This isn't to say that how you thought of it was wrong, but it's not quite right, and I don't know how else to express the ambivalence in that measurement. There's something very gray there (hm yes in more ways than one) that makes me think the entire scenario through. Dead people are dead. They can't consent, or give their opinions, or add their mark to the world - except, they do through those that survive them, who knew them, who want to do things to honor them, which THEN makes me wonder, what is the fine line between the living and the dead? There are many living humans who do not contribute to their surroundings in any way others would consider living, and there are many dead people who continue to leave an impact on the world through actions those who knew them have undertaken in their name or for their reason. How do we grieve the living and live with the dead? It's a very difficult topic for me to say anything about because I have no experience with considering it.
However, it's not a zero sum game. There's no such rule that because someone has died, others are automatically copyright struck from "benefitting" from their loss. There are opportunists, sure - hundreds of thousands of plots where a dead lover leaves a chance for another to slip in, or a death in the family creates some sort of opening - but overall, death is as necessary a part of life as synthesis and giving back the present perspective that would have never happened under a series of what ifs discounts what has already happened. I hope this doesn't sound harsh, it is more like I am trying to turn over my thoughts in the process of writing them, but I do truly believe that it isn't selfish to enjoy the fruits from someone else's loss. Maybe I'm cynical. Despite the negatives from subtracting a positive, sometimes two negatives make a positive, so I think there can be good news in death, even in situations as terrible as the one you described, and it does seem like this is one of those tough but overall narratives where things did not get worse. Maybe I'm just ignorant.
A sense of relief emanates from the end of this piece. I understand how complicated it feels to write about your relationships. It is tough, and it never feels like enough, especially when people are involved in their neverending facets of this and that. Overall, I'm glad you could find something fulfilling, or as you like it, make as complete story as you can covering this part of your life.
Thanks for the thoughtful response. I was a little bothered initially by “this isn’t quite right”, but that’s the conclusion I came to as well. The line I’m missing in here is “Why did I benefit instead of someone she loved?” but that thought is broken too: Eliza benefitted, theoretically. It’s further proof of a broken logic, but feelings aren’t always so consistent. (Feeling guilt is consistent with how I was raised, though.)
I would probably push back on the idea of treating death pragmatically. “Death is a part of life” feels suitable for losing a loved one in their nineties but it’s no consolation when I fifteen-year-old dies from being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Ditto for the “Everything happens for a reason” mindset: if the reason is some random freshman at UC Davis finding a friend, does that really soothe the ache of loss for those who loved someone taken too soon? Those are clichés at this point, but they also don’t strike me as convincing. Death is a sucky part of life in a situation like this, and a nebulous, unknowable “reason” doesn’t justify (for me) a flame extinguished early. If they comfort someone, especially the bereaved, wonderful…but I’m not sure they offer the peace they intend to. That might say more about where I’m at religiously now than anything, but that’s my cynicism talking, and that’s also at the core of my intersection with Sarah Lekven: if I’m that “reason”, that…sucks? That doesn’t *feel* fair—even after conversations with Eliza, writing several drafts, and talking it through podcast style.
Since, as you say, the dead can’t speak, all we can do with unresolved “business” with them is construct a vision for ourselves. I erased a section about the reservoir of optimism Sarah Lekven incepted in me—since something so good did arise out of something so bad—but even that is engineered by me. My verb of choice is “to manufacture” for silver linings because we have to assume some authorship over their invocation. It’s a choice to look past a sky of dark clouds and focus on the sunlight just starting to creep through. Sometimes we have to look really, really hard to find even a hint of light. I didn’t intend to end where I did here in that assurance that if she could, Sarah Lekven would be happy, but I like where it landed. It is also wholly my interpretation. It feels right, but I will never know, barring Albom having greater insight into the afterlife than I expect.
I’m glad you enjoyed and remember well his book. I considered rereading it, but this piece required the remembered version more than a recent read, since the lessons I took twenty years ago informed this story. I too remember the fifth—initially, I only remembered the fifth! It’s such a generous place to land in, though. It feels even now like almost too much forgiveness. But that’s probably present me intruding more than what the story does.
In any event, thank you again for the thoughtful response. I think I got something out of reading, reflecting, and responding to it.