Introduction

"For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?"

-William Shakespeare

I had nothing to wear to a funeral. This was my latest dilemma and believe it or not, I have no earthly idea why it set me off the way it did. The funeral was in less than an hour and I owned not a single article of clothing that I deemed appropriate for a funeral. Apparently, in various attempts to purge my closet of unwanted and unneeded clothes I had managed to throw out every single black twin set, tweed pencil skirt and trouser. Why? I have a fear I like to ignore. 

There was once a phycologist that claimed fears were genetically passed down from parents to offspring. This is also an idea I like to ignore. Although my father and I fear similar things, there is no way that I would ever want to end up like him. He was ignorant and alone and perfectly comfortable that way. 

My biggest fear? Death. Death in and of itself seems almost preferred to life sometimes (yes, that sounds awful and morbid) but who would really want to live a monotonous life like mine? Death at least sounds like an adventure of sorts. That's what I like to believe during the daylight hours, where fears and dark snarky shadows don't even exist. At night though, panic grips my stomach into knots and the thought of not existing and the eternal state of my soul drove me in an endless circle of intense questions. So there you have it, I fear death. I fear any reminders of death. Wilting flowers were removed from vases. I threw away all black clothes. I didn't buy black paint. I didn't visit nursing homes. I hated hospitals. I liked my steady job. I like my happy synthetic music and my cookie cutter house. I liked my friends who would all drink with me and smile and talk about the latest t.v. shows. 

I was completely ignorant and completely alone, which means that in trying to avoid one fear I had trapped myself in my other greatest fear- I was turning into my father.

There is a great deal of speculation about my father. Rabbis, nuns and various ministers, junkies, hippies and pastors have attempted to contact my father to no avail. I'm the only person he'll talk to, and that is only occasionally. He lives alone on a lake. The lake's in the front of the property where he can fish and he has a large field where he keeps a garden and his giant red hot air balloon. He's bizarre and quirky, his life is kind of like a mix of Walden and Around The World in Eighty Days. According to my study of his life, he's fed up with this world. He's fed up with death and hurt and pain. As am I. As is everyone. 

So here I sit. The contents of my wardrobe spread out across my floor and my hair mussed from attempting a sophisticated chignon. I finally hit my breaking point. I leaned back on my bed and I breathed in deep. I thought about my father's life. I thought about how easily it paralleled mine. We both feared loss and leaving and anything that was permanently scarring. 

We both reacted in different ways, I filled my life with new furniture from Ikea and new drink recipes. He filled his with rustic perfection and isolation in the most extreme sense of the word. 

But like all good epiphanies, this one arrived unannounced. Suddenly it was just intensely present in my mind. There had to be change. I could not even live this way anymore. I had just lost a good friend. A friend who had told me on her deathbed not to make the same mistakes as her. Not to start a bucket-list a month before your time to go. She had told me to embrace life and death. They went hand in hand. Opposites attract right? 

It hit me as I sat there with all of those stupid clothes and I cried. I cried for my friend. I cried for my father. But mostly, I cried for myself. This is where my story begins.