Living is an art. So in that sense, we are all artists. The people we lost were also artists. They contributed to their time in history. They were shaped by global events and personal circumstances. Their beliefs and desires produced a once-in-forever dream.
Art is made to please and to provoke. Art moves us and engages us. Art captivates and inspires us, but art is not made to last. However worn and damaged we think we are, each of us is a piece of art in human form. And that form, too, isn’t meant to last.
We build our palaces, knowing someday they will be reduced to ruins—fleeting testaments to our genius. We create something of beauty and then send that little masterpiece off to meet its fate. Sooner or later, it will be lost to history.
Still, we’re all sensitive to loss. Priceless artifacts are stolen and historic structures are destroyed in the ugliness of war. We mourn their destruction. We mourn the loss of mankind’s reason and goodwill. We fear for mankind itself.
And we celebrate recovery, like finding sunken treasures or ancient scrolls. We search for signs of forgotten civilizations. We collect things. We cling to each other. We value rare objects as we value human life.
Ask yourself how it feels to create something. It feels right. It feels wonderful. If you raised a child, cultivated a close friendship, or built a business, do you regret having done any of it? Do you wish you’d never invested the effort?
You were also creating a personal history. If you think you failed at any part of it, you’re missing the point of existence. This magnificent “failure” is your art. Everyone’s creative process is messy and exhausting, but it results in something that will never be seen or experienced again.
Picture soap bubbles floating in a breeze. Notice how sunlight adorns each one with unique patterns of swirling colors. Soap bubbles are delicate, fleeting things. With a puff of air, they’re born. They dance and spin. Then, with a pop they’re gone. Whatever traces they’ve left evaporate quickly in the heat of the day.
Creating something beautiful is worth the effort, even if it gives you only the briefest pleasure. Your life is an ongoing creative effort. Your life is your art, and death is part of its wonder.
You create art with an eye for beauty. An evolving point of view is natural to your creative process. Why not look at death like that?
Your own death will be a unique expression of your art. The death of a loved one should be seen the same way. Respect their talents. Don’t judge them through the lens of your disappointments. Whether they died very young or very old, value their art.
Give your full respect to the artists you lost. And give yourself that small bit of grace as you move forward without them.
It doesn’t matter whether you think of yourself as wise or unworldly. It doesn’t matter if you speak easily or find it difficult to speak at all. Your art reaches far beyond words and your artistic talent continues to evolve.
You are the central character in a dream of your own making. Your life is a distinct work of art, shaped by your own ways of thinking and imagining. You’ve built a reality out of all the things you learned. And you’re still building. Like life itself, you’re building, unbuilding, rebuilding, and reinventing.
Life, the supreme artist, creates and destroys at the same time. Change comes with upheaval and sometimes death. Trees sprout new growth from the rich legacy of decaying leaves. With old roots, we plant ourselves into the soil of a new dream, welcoming new friendships and new opportunities.
You, the artist, have faced these same changes throughout your life. You’ve transformed as you’ve grown. Your body’s cells have replaced themselves many times over the decades. Your mind has replaced one belief for another. Old images of yourself have been discarded for new ones. Habits have ended and passions forgotten.
Maybe you’ve had to move from town to town in your lifetime. Along the way, you’ve discarded precious items, emptied rooms, and driven away from familiar realities. Simultaneously, you’ve created new realities in other places. You’ve furnished other houses and painted other walls.
You’ve watched young gardens grow and left others to perish. You’ve torn down, rebuilt, and kept moving forward. You’ve created new realities from the remnants of old ones. And now you have the chance to do that again.
Great artists rebel against social expectations. Sur- rendering to life’s inspirations, they will ignore their critics. Following their own creative will, they may even break the rules that brought them to greatness.
Artists exercise free will. You are the artist of your personal reality, improving your skill with every revelation. You are your own masterpiece, modifying yourself with every new experience. You are the student, teacher, and the sum of all you’ve learned. You’re also the product of all human experience. You know what victory feels like, and also despair.
Every human experience lives within your genetic memory. You may not be a father who lost his only child, but that experience is part of you. You know what is to be a boy who lost a brother or a lonely girl who lost a friend. You are a child, raised without a mother, and you are a grieving widow, inconsolable and alone.
You are the human experience, complete with its cruelties and immense joys. Every human experience is filled with small joys and astonishing delights. Death is balanced by the breathtaking excitement of birth. Every loss is balanced by countless gains.
No disappointment should be ignored, no joy forgotten. Pleasant memories, as well as unpleasant memories, have made your life the poetic composition it is. And when memory has lost its power over you, love is what remains.
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This passage is an excerpt from Grief and Renewal, a Mystery School Book by Don Miguel Ruiz and Barbara Emrys.
