When I die, I want the universe to let out a gentle sigh.
As if to say, “that guy really did it.”
I’ve been contemplating death a lot lately.
I recently finished reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, which is, well, exactly what it sounds like. It’s a beautiful reflection on dying well and living intentionally.
One of my favorite exercises that I’ve done over the years is the practice of writing my own obituary. It’s both inspirational and confronting.
I want my obituary to read as follows:
He squeezed every drop out of this precious lifetime.
He walked the path of awakening with devotion while fully inhabiting the messy human experience.
He went to war and came back to question what we are doing here in the first place.
He loved fiercely and walked through the world with deep compassion.
He got barreled in double overhead waves and sat in silent retreat.
He rode big lines via heli drops and played Candyland with his kids.
He sat in total gratitude with his morning coffee while always pushing the limits of human potential.
He ran Ironmans, endurance races, and pushed his body to the limit, but was a fancy man who loved luxury and comfort.
He laughed and cried and partied and sat in stillness, all with the same level of gusto.
He would never shut up about the time his punk rock band opened for Jimmy Buffett, and his closest friends always listened like it was the first time they’d heard him tell it.
He fought tirelessly for the most vulnerable among us, and stood as a protector of the weak.
He explored the vastness of consciousness while remaining grounded, present, and human.
He shared transformative messages from stage that changed countless lives, but always took the time to listen to a friend in need.
He wrote thought-provoking books that touched millions, but never missed an opportunity to laugh late into the night with his friends.
He was always up for both full send and lazy days in bed.
He loved and cherished his wife fully and modeled devotion in his partnership.
His children knew that he loved them dearly and always made time for them. Always.
Those closest to him always knew he was their biggest fan and that he celebrated their wins as his own, while also holding the mirror with compassion when they were out of alignment with their values.
He founded and built a wildly successful company, and failed spectacularly at his second. He let neither define him.
He was radically committed to seeking truth and burned every identity that no longer served him.
His favorite feeling in the world was having his mind changed, and he would pivot on the spot when presented with new information.
He was quiet and introspective, yet somehow loud and raucous.
His work impacted millions, but he didn’t crave the spotlight.
He was always the first to apologize, to admit when he was wrong, and to welcome those around him to do the same.
He was deeply realized, but chronically self-deprecating.
He fully owned his worth and potential, but never placed himself above others.
He embraced change, but never wavered from his values.
He was terrible at administrative tasks and laughed at his own incompetence.
He was a jack of all trades, master of a few, mediocre at many, and hilariously bad at even more. He tried them all anyway.
He was the most interesting man in the world to no one but himself.
He was a walking paradox, an enigma, a chimera.
His highest value was being a good husband and father.
He walked the path of the warrior poet.
He was everything, everywhere, all at once.
He was, at his core, a good man.
Nothing more, nothing less.
_______
My meditation teacher shared a lesson with me that his own teacher shared with him many years ago.
It’s been living in my head rent-free ever since.
“You only get to be Mike once.”
I want to experience it all and die empty.
Here’s to living life at the bleeding edges.
What will your obituary say about you?
To all of it,
mb
