An Underappreciated State

On a warm day in the middle of October '17, my father and I climbed up the ragged slope of the Catalina foothills outside of Tucson Arizona. Our goal was simple and our thoughts were clear...find the right place to scatter my grandparent's ashes. As we walked, I found my mind wondering, seeking meaning.

I said, “Take this child, From Tucson, Arizona. Give her the wings to fly through harmony. And she won’t bother you no more." -- Paul Simon, "Under African Skies"

We went off the path, across a dry rocky wash, and up a hill as our clothes and legs were snared by underbrush and cacti. A thousand years ago, the massive area around us was roughly the territory of the Hohokam. These were tough and innovative people who adapted to desert living with irrigation and farming. They left behind structures, pottery artifacts, turquoise jewelry, and the tradition of cremating their dead.

After exhausting ourselves, we arrived at the top of a hill overlooking a vast valley stretching as far as we could see. In the distance, was Rancho Vistoso where my grandparent's home had been. We pulled the containers out of our backpacks. My grandfather's urn was hand-painted with colorful flowers. Knowing him well, I doubt he would have picked this urn for himself, but like many things as they grew older, this was my grandmother's decision. After all, she survived him by a decade and wouldn't have settled for any container that did suit her style. My grandmother past away about a year ago, and her ashes were in a simple wooden box. If their personalities were considered, the containers should have been reversed. I set them both down on a large boulder and waited to catch our breath.

My father went first. He looked out at the mountains, gently opened the box, and returned my grandmother to the earth. Her parents, just as their parents, only borrowed these atoms. For what seems like an incredibly short time, we were lucky to have known who she was, her sassy personality, her wit, her smile.

"What do you think grandma would have said right now," I asked my dad.

"Jackie, this is a really good place to put us," he said. (my dad's name is Jack)

I went second, opened the fancy vase, and emptied it on the same spot. These ashes were once a smart young chemist who became a VP at Hercules Powder, a DuPont Company. He made nitrogen for bombs during WWII and then fertilizer during the rebuilding of Europe. He once told me a story that before my dad was born, he was mixing a batch of nitroglycerine and a freak earthquake hit Wilmington. He held onto the machine for dear life hoping it wouldn't explode. Looking at his ashes, I wondered how many of my ancestors must have had similar stories. Thousands of forgotten near misses throughout the eons. I'm lucky to exist.

"What do you think grandpa would have said right now," I asked my dad.

"You did good ol' boy," he said.

The disorganized mass of ashes left me awestruck at the incredible lives that these particles once produced. How much would we give for another five minutes with them? I found myself humbled thinking about life, how special it is, and how finite it is. As Bill Bryson wrote in "A Short History of Nearly Everything":

...trillions of drifting atoms had somehow to assemble in an intricate and intriguingly obliging manner to create you. It's an arrangement so specialized and particular that it has never been tried before and will only exist this once. (This combination of particles allows us to) ...experience the supremely agreeable but generally underappreciated state known as existence.

The key to this passage are the words: underappreciated state. In the moment, we often forget how special the present can be. Are we doing the right things in our lives? We hurry through our lives, judging our success or happiness on imagined aspirations. We forget about finding happiness within ourselves and being present right now. Steve Jobs' said it well in his famous Stanford Commencement,

Almost everything -all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure- these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important.

After a few minutes, we packed up and headed back down the mountain. We hiked in absolute silence. My mind was calm, knowing that we didn't need to say anything. I could hear our foot steps and the mourning dove calling in the distance. If you listened very carefully you could hear a faint rumble coming from Oracle Highway.

For now, our minds were clear and grateful knowing that we'd honored our loved ones. For a brief moment, we appreciated the present and the ritual of saying goodbye.