Like it or not, these days my thoughts often turn to death. The subject is very relevant. I have already lived well past the life expectancy for an American male. Daily I read in the press of people younger than me dying. And few of my contemporaries are surviving.
As I have written here before, I am determined to live well past a hundred years old. I do all I can to stay healthy. My diet is primarily vegetables and fruits with little meat and no sweets. Granted, over the holidays when my children brought me food and I attended a good many parties, I allowed myself treats I would otherwise never indulge in. And my weight has gone up a few pounds. Now I am back to my regular diet. The pounds will disappear rapidly.
I also lift weights every other day in a routine that lasts more than two hours. That keeps my body trim. More important, it keeps me healthy.
And I sleep. I seem to have a limitless appetite for sleep, and I indulge it. I often sleep ten hours at night and then take an hour’s nap in the afternoon.
All that said, I know that my life, like all lives, will end in death. I can delay it, but I can’t avoid it. So I do my best to prepare.
My last will and testament and instructions for the handling of my remains are in the hands of my children who have promised to carry out my orders. My possessions—objets d’art, books, recordings, and furniture from all over the world including places which I cannot claim to have visited because my work there is still classified—range from paintings and sculptures to ceramic animals and intricately carved screens. All of them will pass to my children for disposition.
All I am left with is the question of what happens after death. As an agnostic, I make no claims about what I believe. Maybe my death will mean I’ll cease to exist, or maybe there is life after death. Maybe when the moment arrives, I’ll find out.
Or maybe I won’t.