Cinder and Smoke

In the spirits of the past holidays of Karneval, Ash Wednesday, and Valentine's day, I've decided to turn this blog into a reflection of the life I've come to live in Bonn, Germany. "Thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return" we are reminded on Wednesday a day after Karneval's fleshly festivities end, and yesterday we celebrate what has come to be called one of the most consumerism-oriented days of the year. During Karneval we over-indulge in fearful premonition of the beginning of lent, the coming of Ash Wednesday. Like little children we feast ourselves overfilled knowing that it will 'get taken away' on Wednesday. And on Wednesday we receive ashes wincing and unwillingly because we feel scolded. I don't think these views can agree. We can't parade every year (weather in Texas, Louisiana, or Bonn), and then be regretting it also every year, feeling sorry for our inclinations to indulge and party. We go from hedonism to Calvinism without a second thought. How is it then that both the indulgence and the transcendence can both be? Yesterday, I tried standing up to the general feeling of regret flows in abundance on Ash Wednesday. I received the cross in my forehead as a caress instead of a slap, and instead of beating myself up, I was able to rest better than on any of the prior days of Karneval. I look back at the fun I've had so far in Bonn - even at the parts where I would say I had 'too much' fun - and I regret none of it; I see nothing I would change; I see nothing wrong with them in the large scheme. They are my experiences and they have been awesome, and unforgettable. There have been parts that are temporarily or even intrinsically 'bad', but, having moved past them, I don't regret but appreciate them. It is because of the bad that the good stands out. I receive the cross on my forehead, and I don't noose it to my neck like an albatross, but I wear it almost proudly. It is a symbol for a life lived fully (especially so in the past 4 weeks). The cross does not warn me of death, but of life. It says, "Now and only now you are not dust, so go not be dust!" I celebrate that I am not dust at the moment, that I have the privilege of living, and in adjunction, the privilege of loving, and drinking, and even the privilege of getting sick and the privilege of dying. As medical students, all of us in the program have had the opportunity of experiencing firsthand the beauty that death and sickness add to life, our appreciation of that beauty attracts us to the profession. It is said the Greeks believed their gods envied humans for their mortality. This is why. I thank my God that what I do matters because what I have on this earth, like my time, is finite. Thank God that I am so fragile that sickness can strike me down and I can only do so little to stop it. It beckons us to bask in our mortality. It lets us dance eagerly while death plays the fiddle. But still there is a warning. "To dust you will return." And a man can only live happy until he dies. So as important as it is to enjoy life, we must also be conscious. Conscious to make our enjoyment count past our expiration date. Conscious that we will exist after our deaths if only as part of history. An unexamined life is not worth living, but an examined life keeps value even after death. I've had an attitude, as imparted to me by my brother, to live as to regret more things. This is not as senseless as it sounds. I am normally very indecisive and cautious. I take the safer choice, because of laziness or fear. Then I look at the lives of people I admire, and they have done so much more because they do not hesitate to do what is different. The motto is thus supposed to help me realize that there is no reward without a risk, and it would be better to regret one thing or another than miss out on anything at all. My advice is this, live smart, but live more.