Just before I woke this morning I had a dream. I was standing at a doorway. The door opened and I had just raised my foot to step through, when I realized that with the next step I would be leaving this world and entering another world.
I thought about the dream over coffee.
Before I stepped into that black and white other world, I had turned my head to see what was behind me in the place I was leaving: people I know were doing dishes; others were going up and down the stairs; there were letters on the desk; and the smell of winter minestrone simmering on the stove permeated the air. I could feel the chill of the cold doorknob on my fingers; could hear the chatter of kids playing in the corner. The walls were covered with photos of family and friends; there were books on the shelf; and through one of the windows I caught sight of trees in full leaf, and beyond, the neighbor in her backyard. I heard echoes of arguments, a whiff of the metallic air of anger; saw the eyes of a friend shedding tears, heard the ring of a phone, noticed dirty dishes in the sink…
These were fleeting moments, small things. There were shadows, smells, the taste of fresh bread in my mouth, the sound of my sons’ laughter, the feel of dirt on my hands from working in the garden.
Sipping my coffee, I understood the dream as a moment mori in 2-second dream form.
With that glance back, I had stepped into the same river of thought as the ancient Greek philosophers Democritis and Socrates, who said that the proper practice of philosophy is about death and dying. My dream wasn’t a didactic dream, not a religious admonition to “ be good or else when you die you’ll go to hell.”
And it wasn’t a thing, graspable like other momento mori: not a 19th century mourning brooch made of human hair, not a skull ring like my friend wears, not an elegy like Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, or a dance like that of the Grim Reaper, or a portrait like that of the Puritan Thomas Smith with his skull in hand. It wasn’t a calavera, a skull made of sugar for the Day of the Dead, nor a literary calaveras, a satirical poem given to the living, but written as if the recipient were dead.
The dream was not significant enough to walk along with the works of Camus or Sartre, or profound enough to be an experience of Bhuddist maranasati, or serious enough to echo The Way of the Samurai or a Sufi’s profound understanding.
It was just a little dream. I decided the significant part of it was the details:
Each element of my life filled the room, although the room was not full or crowded; there was no threat, just details of life. My little 2-second dream, my early morning momento mori, was simply a reminder that the big part of my life, as a woman and as a writer, is contained in a mass of the smallest of details. As I gather these details I find out who I am, and in the details of my books, I find out who my character are. This is what a moment-mori is good for. If I can remember that death is just one step away, the details around me will burst into the lush color, motion, and forms of life.