Spending bulk of time among the living good advice
Why do you look for the living among the dead?
It's Easter evening as I type, pondering a pregnant question. According to the Gospel, there are these two women who come to Jesus' tomb to bathe and anoint the body in the custom of Jewish burials. These women are acutely bereaved. And they've come to do their duty. To make an honorable observance.
But, there is no body in the tomb. Just this angel, meeting their gaze, and asking the question: "Why do you look for the living among the dead?"
I love great questions. And this question is big! Even if you aren't a religious person, the question still works existentially and psychologically: Why do you look for the living among the dead? Meaning, why do you look for vitality and alive-ed-ness by attaching yourself to times, places, relationships, beliefs and behaviors that are ... well, dead. Or worse, deadly.
I often think of compulsions/addictions as looking for the living among the dead. Smoking, drugs, alcoholism, compulsive sex and gambling -- each of these behaviors is a distorted attempt to "look for the living," to feel more alive, to force into at least temporary retreat the painful, anxious, dead feeling inside our souls. And, whatever the initial illusion, each of these behaviors slowly -- or not so slowly -- sap vitality ... or kill outright.
I often think some kinds of nostalgia are looking for the living among the dead. Don't get me wrong: Memories are rich and beautiful things, becoming even more precious as I grow older. But nostalgia is not a celebrated memory. It's a pining, paralyzing ego-attachment to the past. Often an idealized past. My high school basketball memorabilia is in a box in my attic; not on my bedroom wall. As much as I love '60s music, classic rock and '70s singer/songwriter music, I force myself to seek and stay at least somewhat familiar with emerging music.
Many great performers of yesteryear come to Las Vegas to play out the string, pulling the same iconic hits out of the mothballs night after night. In contrast is The Gatlin Brothers, whose last album was called "Adios." On that album was a song about dreams. During the farewell tour, Larry Gatlin said that he had loved his music and showbiz career, but that now it was time to pursue other dreams:
Is life a simple matter of "one dream per customer"/ Or are you allowed to dream all that you can dream?
I often think of unresolved bereavement as looking for the living among the dead. I'm willing to call just about anything "normal" in the first six months of an acute bereavement. Maybe as long as 12 months. But, when I meet grieving people months and years later whose deceased loved one's bedroom has become a museum (literally untouched since the death), or who have never had a memorial or a funeral or any kind of interment, or those for whom grief has become a fiercely defended nursing at a bitter, hateful breast well, this grief is no longer a holy business. More like an abscess, draining psychic livelihood.
Chronic resentment over past injustices is perhaps the most tragic looking for life amongst death. Notice I said "chronic resentment." Not all resentment is a bad thing. If you've suffered a terrible injustice, you'll never hear from me the clucking admonishments "Get over it" or "Let it go" or any other such "encouragement." There are some evils for which we light a small torch of resentment as witness, testimony and a never-failing commitment to guard against such things happening again. No, what you will hear from me is the need to distinguish between a holy resentment and a nurtured ego-resentment -- the kind that becomes fastened to the identity of Victim. Said another way, people have the power to victimize me, but only I can decide to become "A Victim."
A few years ago, I was invited and sponsored to attend the then 32nd annual Scholars Conference on Holocaust Studies. An elderly man spoke of surviving horrors at Auschwitz, then after the war immigrating with surviving family members to the United States. For me, the most disturbing part of his story was next:
"I was 14. The first day I went to school in America, boys threw rocks at me because I was Jewish."
Then, the most inspirational part:
"So ... I decided to become an optimist."
I was stunned. This man somehow decided to look for the living amongst the living. If he could, I can. You, too.
Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Las Vegas Psychiatry and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at 227-4165 or skalas@reviewjournal.com.
