Meaning and Time

I am an atheist who prays. I believe there is no God in charge of our daily lives and daily events in the world. I entertain several creation myths and believe they are all equally true--Evolution and the creation story in genesis are two of my favorites. I believe we humans have to experience our lives as meaningful in order to live. I believe that we have to create our own meaning--collectively and/or individually. My prayers are those of thanksgiving and pleas for support when I am feeling really scared or experiencing myself as espeically powerless.

I believe that individual human existence ends at death. I believe that the only way we can conquer death is through the experience of meaningful activities that give us timelessness.

Almost every Monday this summer I walked along the Schuylkill River about 3/4 of a mile from my apartment. I took along a net and a bag or two. I fished bottles and cans and plastic bags and styrofoam cups and plates and a couple of T shirts and several flip flops out of the water with my net, and used my bags to carry them to the trash cans located along the bike/hike trail that runs along the river.

I also fished out balls--baseballs, soccerballs, undersized basketballs, rotting nerf balls of various sizes, handballs, (no ping pong balls), several footballs (not round), and many many tennis balls of various colors. Also 2 dozen plastic fishing bobbers of various sizes and 2 rubber duckies.

I kept the balls and bobbers and the rubber duckies. I collected them on a shelf in my apartment entrance way and wondered what I would do with them when fall came.

Mostly the hour that I spent harvesting bottles and cans and balls every Monday was timeless. No rushing, no worrying, no hurrying, no past no future, just presentness. I did have to practice letting go of thoughts related to wanting balls more than cans, rewarding myself by letting myself collect balls after fishing out a certain number of bottles and cans.

Years ago, I would not have been timeless in this activity for, even if no other worries or thoughts of present and future came to steal the present, I would be drawn into thoughts about pollution and pollutors and self righteous indication and anger at those who dirty up the river. I probably would give some of my serenety to depression--hopelessness and powerlessness about changing the world.

Now I accept that I am a pollutor even though I don't throw cans and bottles away on the street or in the water. I accept that I am no better than anyone else and that I have my defects and failures that are at least as serious as those who litter.

I really don't know if we can save the planet from our polluting. We might. We might not. What I do know is that I can take 30 bottles and cans out of the water this Monday Morning and this little bit of the Schuylkill river looks a little cleaner.

I find this meaningful. And the activity timeless. While I am doing it, there is no death, only the enjoyment of these present moments.

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My Story of my father's Death: Version One

My father, Mike Stern, is given a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. He is 85 years old. He has diabetes, he has walked with pain for a number of years, his heart is not strong although he has not had a major heart attack. My father enjoys life a great deal. He loves to eat, he loves my mother and my sister and I and his granddaughter and grandson and great-grandchildren. He still likes to read, play bridge, work on the computer which he learned to do in his 70's, communicate with a few family members spread around the country and a few good friends from high school and college and even elementary school.


My father is not full of regrets about his life and he is not especially afraid to die. He is spritually oriented in a non-relgious sort of way. He believes whole-heartedly in God. He isn't sure what, if anything comes after death (at least he says this, but he may have some private beliefs which he is reluctant to share for fear that they might be questioned or belittled). He seems quite convinced that there is nothing bad likely to happen when he is dead other than never being able to eat at Galatoire's again and not seeing his great grandchildren grow up.


My father is grateful for the joy and accomplishments that he has experienced and he doesn't want to live forever. Most of my father's family has died--including his three brothers, and one of his two sisters, all three of his brothers-in-law, and all three of his sisters-in-law. Most of the men who were his best friends are dead. My father has already lost a fair amount of his competency and he can see that this is certainly going to get worse the longer he lives. He wants to die at home, he wants to be cared for as much as possible by his wife and children, with no more money spent on other kinds of care than has to be. He doesn't want painful and undignified medical procedures or long stays in the hospital.


My father was told he would have about six months to live. He had some moments of pain and some moments of fear. He went on playing bridge, enjoying food, bickering with my mother, making birthday cards on the computer. He had a lot of interest in and energy for planning his funeral and memorial service. My father involved me in this ways that represented enormous gifts to me. He asked that I invite the men's group I had been a part of for several years to help create a service for him. He requested that his ashes be scattered in a creek that he helped the men's group clean up one spring. He agreed to come to visit the site for this scattering and memorial service with the men's group during the time between his diagnosis and his death.

On a chilly Sunday afternoon, toward the end of winter, we carried him in his chair to the bank above the creek. He took a breath or two and said to the five men sitting around him, "well, men I am going to die, soon. Is there anything you want to ask me about what I feel?"

A few weeks later, a little more than six months after his diagnosis, a few days after his birthday dinner, he died at home, in his own bed. He had had little pain, no more stays in the hospital, having been attended to mostly by my mother and my sister and I (with help from hospice and some home care aides).


A few weeks after he died, about 35 people sat on the bank above the creek and eulogized and celebrated by father's life and shared some of the mourning of his death. Words from anciet Hebrew prayers and spiritual calls from Native American traidtions were chanted. Some hymns were played on a CD Player and their melodies floated out over the creek. People spoke of my father with love and affection and humor. Members of our family scattered spoonfuls of his ashes on the land and on the water. Some of them were poured into a hole we dug and we planted a young Dogwood on top of them. Many of us smiled and wept.

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In this story, My father's dying is a beautiful, spritial, peaceful, and inspiring process. It is a time filled with love and caring, bravery and beauty. For me, there is a little sadness, immense gratefulness, a sense of having been loved and of having been loving. Acknowleding and being acknowledged. Responsibility lovingly and succcessfully carried out. Completion, resolution, closure, peace.

A good life come to a good end.