After I die

The script to this podcast is at The Muse is In on Substack 

Bhutanese philosophy views death not as a tragic end, but as a natural transition, a continuation of life, and an integral part of existence. 

Back in 2019, an MRI indicated that I had an aneursym in my ascending aorta. Yikes, I thought. I must be on my way out. I wrote a letter to all my people telling them I loved them and … see ya. 

Well, here I am almost seven years later. Turns out it’s just hanging out there to remind me how temporary life is. I had that same wake-up call many people describe after near-death experiences where the ephemeral nature of life makes you much more present to the incredible blessing of being alive. I got busy living deeper and thinking about death in a more friendly light.

I pondered the question, what if dying is something much better than we think? What if what happens after you die… is what you believe will happen to you? And if that notion is preposterous to you, what would it hurt to believe in it anyway? It relaxes me, which inspired this podcast.  Complete with a wild parrot honing in.

The Muse is In workshops

Transcript

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SPEAKER_00 0:10

Hi, this is Jill Badonsky with The Muse's Daydream. And the title of this piece is After I Die. This is the first thing I say after I die. Holy shit, this is incredible. And this is because I realize I am now the sunlight flickering in the leaves of a cottonwood tree. I am ethereal and it is superb. I am also the smell of barbecue on the beach and the small breeze created by a hummingbird's wings in motion. I alternate between being the crackle and the pop in a bowl of rice krispies. I am the small sigh of relief when somebody finally finds their glasses on top of their head. I'm the click of a dog's paws across a hardwood floor and a cat's purr. All on a Saturday that doesn't realize it's as holy as a Sunday. At first, I try to make sense of it. Hmm. I keep waiting for a receptionist, a tour guide, or maybe a flight attendant to indicate how to use the oxygen masks and where the exits are. No one comes. I am the shiver you feel when you hear yourself laugh almost exactly like your mother did. I'm the moment right before a joke lands and the pause where people wonder if it's okay to laugh in a world like this. I'm not heaven or hell. I'm in everyone's peripheral vision. I'm the breeze that flips open a notebook to a blank page. The extra second the traffic light stays yellow so you can make it through safely. And the feeling you get when someone you like calls you by a nickname. But yikes, I think. I spent a lifetime building a respectable career, morphing into what I hoped was being a solidly decent person wearing respectable footwear. And now I'm a series of oddly specific sensory effects. Shouldn't I have a steadier position? And maybe a door with my name on it. I'm resigned. No, I'm pleased, and then whoosh. And the sudden urge to sing in the car for no reason. The sound of cello music slipping out an open window. There's a girl staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. convinced she is doing life wrong. She doesn't seem to belong anywhere or say the right thing ever, and her socks don't match. I pour myself into her room as a gently absurd idea. What if you make your worries introduce themselves in a thick Alabama accent? She laughs quietly. The loneliness doesn't disappear, but it loosens a little. Eyes start to expand. And she says, Well, Dad Byrne. Now can't think of nothing big enough to fret my little head over. She giggles. Oh, I think. This is the job. So I just start taking it more seriously without taking it seriously at all. Then I get busy doing all the things I know I can do. I'm the sudden memory of something hilarious, your friend once said, that rescues you from the ledge of your own harsh judgment. I am the invisible hand that nudges a paintbrush, a pen, a mixing spoon into your palm right when you think there's no point in making anything ever again. And the more I scatter myself into these tiny moments, the less I miss having a body. Bodies are great for hugs and gourmet dinners and dramatic exits. But they are terrible at being everywhere at once. Now I am the quiet in the library corner where someone is finally writing the story they've been too afraid to tell. The second thing I say after I died was softer than the first. More like a breeze. Oh, I'm here to keep becoming. And then I flicker again on the leaves of a cottonwood tree inside the crackle of cereal, and the half smile of someone who doesn't know why they suddenly feel just a little more possible. Life is temporary. Love deeply. Thank you for listening to a Muse's Day dream. If you want to know about some workshops or retreats or trainings that might make you feel more alive, check the show notes. Visit themuse is in dot com and stay safe. This episode was written, narrated, and engineered imperfectly by Jill Badonsky. And thank you to the cameo appearance by the wild parrot that flew by at the end of the day.