Birdsong...

Acknowledging the ephemeral nature of life, and the inevitability of death, is bracing rather than consoling, and a counterblast to the infantilising effects of faith. Despite our best efforts to marginalise the subject, death makes incursions into our lives, often at the least opportune moments. If we live long enough, almost every phone call will bring bad news. Our social calendar will one day consist almost entirely of death notices, obituaries and church services, as we attend the funerals of family members – grandparents, parents, hopefully in that order – and too many of our friends and colleagues.
     A time may come when the even tenor of life is disrupted, and we are starkly confronted by the prospect of our own demise. We may be given advance warning: a wake-up call, a medical emergency, an unscheduled visit to the land of the seriously unwell. The doctor may tell us to clear our desks and cancel our appointments, to concentrate instead on undergoing major surgery.
     After the operation, and the weeks of rest and rehabilitation, patients almost always have a story to tell, about how life has taken on a different hue and assumed a more piquant flavour. Jolted out of the familiar orbit of their lives – with habits broken, schedules interrupted and most routine activities suspended – they might have legitimate complaints about the unfairness of life. As they struggle to regain the robust health they had once taken for granted, they might be forgiven for wondering “why me?” Yet if we ask them how they feel about their unanticipated brush with death, we may hear them describe the experience in overwhelmingly positive terms. Having been removed from the workaday world, and compelled to recalibrate their concerns, they may make the unanticipated discovery that life now has new meaning and purpose. Having already contemplated the worst-case scenario, before their operation, they are nevertheless still here, still in the game. The worst that could have happened… didn’t.
     Whatever they used to worry about now seems unimportant. Old feuds are forgotten. Fears shrink – especially their more neurotic fears – as they are forced to confront a genuine crisis. They may experience the natural world – the circadian rhythms, the changing seasons – with new intensity. They may follow the example of poet W H Davies in finding the time just to “stand and stare”. They may listen more attentively to birdsong; they may stop to smell the roses. Colours look brighter; food tastes better; they themselves may be more grateful and good-humoured, less likely to gripe about everyday vexations. Instead of fretting about what they lack, they may be more appreciative of what they have. They may find magic in the mundane and a new enjoyment of everyday activities which, before their usual routine was so rudely interrupted by ill-health, had seemed like tedious chores.
     They may be more compassionate, less self-absorbed, with a greater appreciation of family and friends. They may be more resilient, prepared to embrace the unexpected. Having survived an operation, without any guarantee of a successful outcome, they may be more willing to take risks. They may find reserves of forbearance and fortitude they never knew they possessed; through adversity they may be discovering their better selves. They may finally be present, not absent, in their own lives, as they discover the reality – and not just the abstraction – of living in the present moment...