Mobid (Mortal) Thoughts, part II

I have a hunch that the quality and complexity,and maybe even the value of life, may be judged on the nature of volition and mobility present in the creature we're studying.

To judge an object as "alive" there must be something that we can call will, and also the capability of willful and deliberate movement. The sophistication of a life form can be judged based on the complexity of that volition to motion.

To certain followers of paganism, the earth itself is regarding as living, and on some level this might be true. A rock, for example, when enlivened with the energy of gravity or tectonic upheaval, has a "will" to move. This is a pretty rudimentary will, though, which is why most people would regard a rock as an non-living object.

A touch more sophistication, though, and we enter the world of plants, creations which show some basic volition as their leaves reach and grope for sunlight, as their roots stretch for water and soil. And plants have the capability of motion. Sunflowers reach east in the morning, west in the evening. Seeds travel on the wind. In my own garden, a single cranesbill geranium has moved itself a full eight feet from where I planted it ten years ago. Some form of will and volition is clearly present here.

A plant becomes an animal, I suspect, when its volition and mobility become faster and more sophisticated. Animals can run or fight or migrate, a capacity that raises them about the world of plants.

In more sophisticated animals, including humans, the capacity for motion becomes ever more refined, until it becomes evident through abstract creation, in art, or in the extremely subtle motion of thought and imagination. If we were to define what it means to be human, we might suggest that it depends on the capacity for symbolic thought—the most subtle of motion.

As I watch the process of life and death in humans, in animals, in plants, even in rocks, it occurs to me that the process of death is largely a matter of gradually relinquishing these various forms of volition and motion.

In some older people, for example, it is physical motion that is first surrendered or taken away through illness. Life most certainly continues, though, and in pretty fine fashion, so long as there is motion and volition of thought, of imagination. This may well explain why older people often find themselves with an increasing instinct to spirituality and imagination, since these things offer an outlet for the instincts to volition and movement. I know some people confined to wheelchairs who are far freer than world-class athletes, so nimble are their minds and imaginations.

Other older people, more tragically to me, find the subtle volition of thought to be the first element surrendered, while volition of the physical body takes longer to decline. A human whose mind badly fails is often regarded, quite logically, as vegetative. Not human, not even animal like, but plant like.

All this may be the reason why I find myself taking more sheer pleasure from the act of movement, in all its forms, as I grow older. Imagination now strikes me as the richest, most wonderful of all forms of movement. And I also treasure each and every act of physical movement in the world, arthritic ankles notwithstanding. I started wearing a pedometer on my belt recently. In the first four days of this week, I've walked 23.84 miles, mostly because I find it such a precious delight to walk the early morning streets until a pending morning meeting forces me to finally hop onto the commuter bus. At lunch, I make a point of walking to the farthest restaurant or park bench that is reasonable within an honest lunch hour.

I won't always have the capacity for motion now available to me, so I'm relishing it. With any luck, dreaming will be the last to go.

Morbid (Mortal) Thoughts, part 1

Philosophically, I'm pretty well adjusted to the truth of human mortality.

What I mean is that, on the intellectual plane, I really don't see much reason to worry about death. It doesn't really scare me much, and the reason for this isn't because of some kind of mental parlour game I play with myself. For example, I don't somehow imagine that I'm going to heaven, and thus have nothing to fear from death. Nor do I have a concrete intimation of reincarnation, which might help me avoid the fear of death. I don't insist that such a possibility doesn't exist; but I don't have any evidence that it does, either. It would be cheating to console myself with such mythology.

No, I know full well that the person I am now will come to an end one day, completely, and when the subject comes up for discussion, I don't really feel too much angst over it. Others my age sometimes talk about feeling younger, more alive, than they ever have before. Frankly, I"m pretty sure this is nothing more than a mind game they're playing with themselves. If you have any degree of self awareness whatsoever, you can't help but witness the truth of our decline.

In point of fact, life can be a somewhat tumultuous, messy affair, and there are times when I actually quietly look forward to the end of all the tumult, an end to the constant sensory barrage that is life. I think that death may represent a well deserved rest.

Then again, I do have a pretty strong intimation that awareness is an energy inherent in the world itself, and while I'm pretty much willing to relinquish my petty human awareness one day, I'm also reassured by a strong sense that awareness as a universal force will simply gobble up my miniscule personality for recycling.

I often think of myself as compost—raw material that is currently serving as nutriment for my kids and perhaps my friends.

And when I look around at the world, I see no real indication that anything dies forever. Individuals die, sure, but they are always recycled in some form. This recycling is a reassurance and relief to me, and frankly I think it is a very fine thing that we don't go on forever. On my death bed, simply thinking about my kids will be pretty good reassurance.

That's my position intellectually, and I can argue it pretty damned persuasively.

Viscerally, though, deep in my gut, it's another matter entirely.

On that level, present a long way south of the brain, I'm not in the least bit happy about growing older, and like almost everybody, I have a strong wish to put it off as long as possible.

In a 20-year blink of an eye, I've gone from a young man to a solidly middle-aged man. In another 20 years, certain to pass even more rapidly, I'll be an old man by every possible definition.

I don't like this. Not even a little bit.

Arthritis has plagued almost every member of my family, and while it's come to me later than most, feet and ankles that could once walk for many, many hours without complaint, now feel the pain after a few hours of walking. My hands are thus far largely free of arthritis; but it has appeared in my left elbow, which becomes tender to the touch after a couple hours of gardening.

Yep. I'm in the process of decay, and I hate it.

(to be continued)