Angel Dust In The Wind- A Phenomenological Analysis of Death

The specter of death forever lurks in the shadows of the human psyche despite the fact that we seldom allow ourselves to be fully conscious of its presence. This is because, for us, death is usually conceived of as little more than an intellectual abstraction. What then would it actually look like to fully contemplate the ending of our existence free from such abstraction? To answer this question, we must turn to the phenomenological method used by existentialist philosophers. This is a method of analyzing our experiences by describing them accurately, sensitively, and perceptively, which is aimed at understanding “what it means to be alive or to exist as a human being in the world.” (Koestenbaum, 139) In other words, “the phenomenological technique prefers the more immediate and direct analysis of experience to account for life’s situations.” In order to describe an experience by this method, we have to bracket, or remove, as much as possible that we project onto the experience itself. In a sense, this allows us to reflect on what is normally pre-reflective. The descriptions we give when contemplating our own death exemplifies how we are accustomed to using projection to dilute the essence of our experience. By using the phenomenological method to analyze our conceptions death, we can get a clearer picture of what the prospect of death actually means and/or feels like to us as human beings.

From a phenomenological standpoint, there are two different meanings of the word “death.” There is the death of other people and our own death. The death of others—as seen from the perspective of our own subjectivity—is an occurrence that takes place within the world; we are still there to observe the world when another person dies. The death of the other is seen as just one possible event that can occur in this world of ours. Baring witness to this type of death is rarely accompanied by any overwhelming feelings of terror or dread. If it is someone close to us who dies, for example, we may think of making funeral plans, how we will cope with the loss, etc. The important thing to recognize is that, if examined closely, the death of the other “involves the elimination of an object within the world, and not of the observing ego or subject.” (141) In contrast, when subjected to the same kind of analysis, the conception of our own death means the total disintegration and annihilation of our subjectivity, or observing ego. Thus, the death of the other means the world still goes on and my own death means that the whole universe goes down with me.

When examining conceptions of our own death, we often confuse this with the dramatically different death of the other. This linguistic and semantic confusion serves the valuable psychological function of protecting us from the dangerous amount of terror and anxiety that naturally comes from confronting a phenomenologically accurate recognition of the meaning of our own death. In effect, “we hopefully maintain that the death of another is the only kind of death there is. In fact, we think of the death of myself as nothing worse than the death of another.” (145) For example, when contemplating my own death, this type of confusion may lead me to take comfort in the “fact” that, although I will perish, life will still go on without me. Although I know in a conceptual sense that it is “true” that life will continue without me, to entertain a picture of the world spinning after I am gone is adding something unnecessary to the concept of my own death. It is really implying that, in some sense, I will still be around to look down on this spinning world that keeps on trucking in my absence. From a phenomenological standpoint, this is considered no more than meaningless projection. This is but one common way that people confuse their own death with the death of others, and this confusion is no more than an escape from the reality of our fate. Again, when we die, so does the universe.

Just as some people often confuse the death of themselves with the death of others, many experience the reverse confusion of seeing the death of others as the death of themselves. A parent losing a child is perhaps the most powerful example of how this loss of the other can be experienced, phenomenologically, as the death of one’s self. “Since the death of myself is the disintegration of my world, the death of loved ones—who make up the world of mine—has many of the disintegrative features of the death of myself.” (144) This helps to explain how some people completely “fall apart” when the most important people in their lives pass away. Unfortunately, since we humans are a notoriously neurotic lot, this same “falling apart” in response to the death of a loved one also frequently occurs when the loss one experiences merely represents a symbolic death (i.e., the person lost is simply no longer present in one’s life).

Having worked in a psychiatric hospital, it never ceased to amaze me how many patients were admitted to my unit subsequent to attempting suicide after the breakup of a serious romantic relationship. Psychology provides us with many possible explanations for how such people can completely lose their shit when relationships end. For example, if a guy’s mother abandoned him at the age of three after running away with the Crystal Meth cooker down the street, he will likely experience a reopening of that wound in his adult romantic relationships; particularly when a lover breaks up with, or abandons him. Without even knowing the origin of this man’s dependency on his love interests, however, most psychologists would assume outright that somewhere along the line he has come to identify himself as worthless, and as a defense against such feelings, has sought a sense of self-worth through passionately (neurotically) identifying with his romantic partners. Although there is no doubt some truth to these explanations, a phenomenological analysis reveals a clearer picture of what this man is actually experiencing in response to the lost object; it shows us that the experience of being left by someone who has comprised an enormous chunk of one’s life-world (identification) is much akin to the disintegration we feel when confronted by our own death. Thus, it can be said the anxiety surrounding an accurate conception of our own death is the primary cause underlying the pain incurred by the loss of another.

Now that we realize how much of human suffering stems from a fear of self-annihilation, we can begin to see how important it is that we confront this specter of death in order to live life in the fullest way possible. When we adequately confront our own death there is no more room for self-delusion; “the immediacy of death leads to honesty with oneself.” (157) Ancient Stoic philosophers recommended that we detach ourselves to a healthy degree from others—“to avoid excessive projection onto them or ego-involvement—so their death can be accepted with equanimity.” (144) Speaking to this point, the Greek philosopher Epictetus went so far as to suggest that a father whisper into his beloved child’s ear upon leaving in the morning the sweet nothing “you may be dead tomorrow.” This illustrates how excessive attachments to that which we do not have total control (e.g., other people) can lead to despair and thus should be avoided.

A former professor and mentor of mine was diagnosed with prostate cancer about five years ago and was told that, with treatment, he would be lucky to live another ten years or so. Upon learning this upsetting news, he quickly reevaluated the priorities in his life and began making significant changes in accordance with this new shift in his perspective. Had it not been for the diagnosis, many of the important changes he subsequently made may never have been accomplished, or they would have at least been put off for some time in the indeterminate future. My professor was experiencing what Nietzsche called a “transvaluation of values;” in a sense, he saw things more clearly. One of the things he did in order to keep this change of values fresh in his mind was religiously play the song “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas every day just as he rolled out of bed in the morning. He wanted every single day of his existence to start with a reminder that someday soon he would cease to exist. Most people would say that such a practice is morbid, or at least quite depressing, but for him the experience was extremely uplifting. In fact, the act of confronting and accepting our own deaths is perhaps the most “therapeutic” endeavor we can engage in as human beings.

Confronting our own mortality is uplifting because it puts things into the proper perspective. It helps us to realize on an almost visceral level that we have but one life to live. If done effectively, procrastination loses its appeal and a determined, courageous spirit takes over. I remember reading once of a Buddhist monk in training who was instructed to care for dying people on a daily basis in order to fully get in touch with the reality of the impermanence of all things. Most of us may agree that this is a fine thing for a masochistic religious person to do, but would see no use in engaging in such a practice ourselves. We tend to view this type of action as depressing and therefore consider it something to be avoided.

Indeed, many of us can “get by” just fine in life without resorting to seemingly extreme practices like that of the Buddhist monk who surrounded himself with the specter of death. Furthermore, when discussing the topic of death and its impact on human existence, most of us vehemently proclaim that we are under no illusions about the fact that we and everyone else we love will someday die. Because we believe ourselves to fully accept death as a part of reality, we see no reason to dwell on such a morose topic. However, I do not think I have ever encountered a person (other than a psychotic) who is so much in denial of reality that they do not accept, on a conceptual level, the fact that human beings are mortal creatures. But seeming comfortable with the intellectual knowledge of this fact is not the same as being in touch with and really tasting the full flavor of death. Sometimes life forces us to taste this experience, but we can always choose to school ourselves by snacking on it a little more. Hell, give it a try. Becoming intimate with your own death might just save your life.

References

Koestenbaum, P. (1964). The Vitality of Death. Journal of Exisistentialism, 5, 139-166.

~Wolf