Death and Transformation
As I sit here and type this, my laptop is on its deathbed. Three years ago, I bought it on Black Friday. The touchscreen was untouched, and the buttons on the keyboard were shiny and new, without the buildup of dust and particle debris that often collects over time in the crevices of the keys. Upon opening the laptop today, it went CRICK, and the point where the screen connects to the base broke off, slightly splitting the screen at the left corner.
It is a strange constant in our human lives, the idea that everything is impermanent. Nothing lasts forever, and all things, both good and bad, come to an end. At the same time, in order to even have an ending, you must start with a beginning. We focus so much on the ending of something. We cling to it and forget that in order to start over, or to start anew, we have to let go.
This is a theme that I touched on in a chapter of my novel, The Amazing Adventures of PickleDuck. A couple of years ago, I lost my aunt to cancer. She was the first very close relative whose loss I truly experienced and grieved. In my profession outside of art, I have the unique opportunity to talk to many people. Some only have months left to live, and I am there for what may be their last cleaning appointment. I have had two or three patients like this. Others tell me they are the only survivors among their family and friends.
It is a strange and heavy feeling to see a person and realize they will not return. How does anyone carry that weight alone while experiencing loss after loss? It feels like a cruel twist of being human and alive, to live long enough to witness so many endings.
But endings can also come in subtle, everyday ways. The loss of a job, a relationship, or an older version of ourselves. The idea of letting go and allowing life to continue is something that deeply resonates with me and something I wanted to explore in my novel, even in a lighter form.
As a child, the first time I understood death was when we had to put down our dog due to hip cancer. As an adult, my heart goes out to children who are introduced to even deeper losses, the death of a mother, a father, or a sibling. One of the reasons I wrote PickleDuck was to extend my hand to another person and say, “I know. I know it hurts. I know it is cruel. And we can let go of this gently together.”
I guess it’s time to get a new laptop.
