Finding Happiness in Unlikely Places
How thinking about death contributes to my wellbeing in the here and now...
I hear you, it’s bit of a controversial post, for sure, but let’s dig right in! Recently, I read somewhere that in Bhutan, apparently, people are encouraged to think about death several times a day, to improve their chances of happiness. Before I could even read or research any more about this, it immediately and intrinsically made absolute sense to me. An eager graveyard and cemetery explorer since my earliest childhood days, I have always found a sense of peace and calm when walking quietly through rows of graves, some with elaborate tombstones, others plain or even neglected.
A lot of my family lives in Vienna, a place where grand architecture and impressive cityscaping doesn’t stop at death’s door. Having lost both my maternal grandparents by the time I was two, I had opportunity to visit their grave, and to wander to the farthest corner of what, in my young mind, seemed liked the most fanciful and magical playground. We would often visit in late autumn, when early morning fog crept over the city, golden leaves were mostly fallen, leaving old trees bare, and when more ravens or crows would walk on the pathways than human visitors, who avoided the damp and eerie early hours. In my imagination, these large black birds were like guardians of the dead but also friends to those who came to visit. It felt like they would guide me in the right direction when getting lost between the many lanes seemed probable. Although I was most certainly always accompanied by adults, my parents, aunts or uncles, I only ever remember solitary moments, sitting on cold benches, secretly worrying my layers of clothes would get soaked through from the wet wood, in quiet discourse with my avian friends who would gather around me, no doubt hoping for food.
Usually, I came prepared. Vendors selling roasted chestnuts were stationed at every entrance and, more often than not, I would acquire a paper bag full of these warm treats, steaming in my gloved hands, warming my frozen fingers a little, enough to restore my ability to gingerly peel each chestnut before I could eat and share with the birds. On occasion, I even had other treats to give to the birds, since my large family would often stuff extra food morsels in my pockets, making sure I was never getting hungry or cranky on our excursions through the large city. I was the youngest amongst all my cousins by far, so everybody knew how to keep small people in good spirits. Food has always been my family’s love language, especially when some words were difficult to say.
Sitting with or walking amongst the birds, sharing food while studying the graves, I felt a profound sense of safety and, for lack of a better word, peace of mind. It was natural and I felt at ease, making up stories about the people above whose cold, decaying bodies I was skipping along, sometimes even talking out loud to my feathered companions. The thing was, they always appeared to listen attentively, gazing at me with their knowing dark eyes, tilting their elegant heads this way or that, and they always appeared to answer, too. For every sound I muttered, something came back. I felt understood and accepted. In short, I was very happy to be there, alive amongst the dead, lighting candles, brushing leaves away, putting down stones, purple heather, ribbons, colourful marbles, or any other offerings my family would deem acceptable.
It seems to me, although I didn’t think about it like that as a child, that death mirrors life in some way. While I hope to live to figure this out in detail, thinking about death and my own demise has me feeling more alive and focused than making any too specific plans for the future. Just like the birds back then, death has always seemed like a friend to me. I gravitated towards books and media where death wasn’t depicted through merely negative connotations, still do. My childhood self already loved to read about the lives and deaths of people of interest to me and I got to visit many a final resting place. A seemingly strange occupation but, for me, there was a sense of empowerment to be found in facing mortality, my own and that of others.
Losing loved ones as I grew older became harder. My awareness of loss and all it entails became more acute. Grief and fear took over. This fear, however, I also learned, kills what I love long before its natural time. So I’m thriving to not let it get the better of me. I can’t be overwhelmed by it and try instead to think of death as friend again, just like I did sitting with my birds, in the early hours of many Viennese November mornings. Then, it wasn’t eerie but serene, thinking about and, in a way, conversing with death. Then, it made me feel alive. I remember coming out of the cemetery after a visit, when the city had woken up and light came through. Graveyard flower shops were open now, small groups gathering around the chestnut roaster’s iron basket to wait their turn and warm themselves. The old trams making their unmistakable “bim” sounds as they drove past in all directions, letting off or taking on passengers on every other corner. Horse-drawn carriages, still a common sight on Viennese streets back in the 80s, would line up by the sidewalks, waiting for genteel clientele who could afford to take the scenic route. Fresh morning newspapers were heralded at various street stalls and I was carefully taken by the hand to cross wide streets, guided towards the market or in to a favourite coffee house, depending who I was with or what the order of the day happened to be.
Either way, food and hot drinks were always the next stop, one way or another. Life affirming choices had to be made. It never really occurred to me back then as a child, but often my family must have had mixed feelings visiting the graves of those loved and lost. Maybe the restorative cup of hot chocolate or fragrant tea (most of my family favour tea over coffee), accompanied by a freshly baked treat, was as much for their benefit as it was for mine? Maybe, as I was busy pulling out my little sketchpad, trying to draw portraits of other patrons, while the grownups conversed more hushed for a bit, they too needed reassurance. It never would last too long though. Invariably, more family members or friends would magically appear, and liveliness would be restored to all of them.
My own happiness was a given. Death and life went together, hand in hand, and little me understood this back then, perhaps better than I do now as an adult. Which is why I am still wandering through cemeteries and graveyards whenever I get a chance, no matter where in the world I find myself. Thinking about death may have me feel more nuanced now but, ultimately, it still gives me a kind of comfort, knowing that whatever isn’t going well or causes discomfort will eventually come to an end. Each sadness is also a reminder of previous happiness and gives hope for goodness yet to come. Wellbeing, for me, means first of all being alive and well and grateful for or happy about it.
The birds are still companions and I am still looking out for them, feeding them, occasionally even chatting with them for a while. Nowadays, I take their presence in sometimes unlikely places as a sign, and always pay attention to what they may want to tell me. In this way, I feel the often evoked inner child, my own inner child, is alive and well, too. Being able to look after and care for her is a privilege worth living for, a task that, as an artist, is the actual, real challenge. I’m told all artists seek out their inner child, and I would go so far as to say we all do, either actively through making art or in other ways, forever seeking beauty and meaning.
Though I reckon that’s a story for another day…