If you’ve seen Sinners, you know what I’m talking about when I reference *that* scene.
In case you haven’t, I’ll be able to refer to it without spoilers, as it calls back the first line of the film.
Some people are born with the gift of making music so true that it pierces the veil between life and death.
I saw the movie in April, during its theatrical release. I don’t make it out to movie theatres very often on account of having young kids, but I saw the movie was getting high praise. Specifically, one online comment that said: Coogler just dropped a vampire musical and it’ll be the best movie of the year.
Well, okay!
I made my way to the theatre after bedtime on a Monday night and was ushered in to a very rich world set in Clarksdale, Mississippi.
Some people are born with the gift of making music so true that it pierces the veil between life and death.
I couldn’t hear that opening line without immediately thinking about a friend.
He was a fairly new friend, but an easy guy to talk to. Just weeks ago, he and I had been talking baseball and dad life. Out of the blue, I got a message that he had been hospitalized and it sounded pretty serious.
For about 24 hours, we were unsure how he would pull through. It was the sort of scenario where I kept checking my phone for updates throughout the day. By the time that Monday came around, things looked much more promising. But for a good while, he kept us in a state of uncertainty.
When the movie’s opening line referenced “the veil between life and death” it felt like way more than a metaphor or Biblical allusion. It was a very real thing people could brush up against.
In the past week, I’ve lost a couple family members. They lived full lives; in fact, the number of years they got on earth would make many envious. It’s always sad to say goodbye, but also comforting to know they lived long, lived fully, and at the end found relief from a number of physical discomforts.
I have an old family. Both my parents were on the young end of a chain of siblings, and both of them had me rather late in life. This means that I have plenty of aunts and uncles who are old enough to be my grandparents. Some who felt more like grandparents. I only had enough overlapping years with one of my grandparents to know her well. Thankfully, it was because she kept going for 98 years.
I appreciate my older family. Perhaps some of those longevity genes floated my way. Knock on wood. But it also means that at this stage of my life, in my mid-30s, there will be a lot of funerals to go to.
This week, perhaps even this year, I’ve been a little more conscious of that veil between than typical, and I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.
My kid’s Spanish kindergarten class has been making ofrendas for Dia de los Muertos, and so I’ve sent him to school with several photos of deceased relatives. I got to spend a bit of time in Oaxaca a few years ago, and it was enough to make me appreciate the local perspective on death. Framing it as a part of life, rather than as a hard stop. It’s made me appreciate cultures that keep conscious of death, rather than trying to keep it out of mind.
Losing my dad as a child, growing up in a very religious setting, and having an old family meant I was probably more aware of my mortality than most kids my age. And I think that propelled me towards living life differently. I was more motivated by the idea of building a legacy or having stories to tell than advancement or financial security. And to be honest, I don’t think that’s changed too drastically. I’m thankful I’ve lived this way as I think it’s taken me down some of the roads I’m most thankful for.
These days, I try to let this consciousness be my reminder to go slow. To not take myself too seriously. To deal with setbacks and unpleasant surprises with a deep breath and a sense that some day they’ll be a distant memory.
To spend as much time as I can with people. With loved ones. Especially those getting up there in years.
And to spend more time doing things that feel eternal.
Some people are born with the gift of making music so true that it pierces the veil between life and death.
Unfortunately, I was not born with that gift. But I do wonder if each of us perhaps has some sort of gift that can make that puncture.
I know I can tell stories. I’ve experienced swinging a room between tears and laughter before by painting a picture with words. That’s a good feeling. I’ve been told that one of my stories made someone momentarily forget about a bunch of political drama that had been hounding her lately, and that made me want to try and create that for more people. Not for the sake of escapism, but to go even deeper than the noise on the surface.
I also think that some people might be born with a veil-piercing gift that doesn’t take the form of what we usually think of as art or performance. The gift of deep listening. The gift of making somebody feel like they belong. The gift of lovingly challenging others to be better versions of themselves.
I’m probably not saying anything new here. Memento Mori is as ancient of a reminder as it gets. But I know I still benefit from having that reminder. The reminder that time is passing, but sometimes it can stand still. That there’s a lot of good to be done while we’re here. And that making a visit to an older loved one is something you never regret.