an odd place to find inspiration

A good friend let me in on a secret the other day. “I read obituaries,” she said, “and at my age, I often know the deceased.”

I read them, too.

I don’t skim them like I do the other sections of the paper - just glancing at headlines, and if interested, committing to the first paragraph, and then racing ahead to the last. I read every word.

It is not a morbid or creepy obsession with death or dying, but more a zealous curiosity about people and their lives.

Who was this person? Did they fall in love? Where did they go in their life? Did they have a happy place, a favorite quote, a furry friend? How did they impact the world? And what is their “in lieu of flowers”?

I don’t know, maybe I am hoping to learn something (what’s the secret to life?), or maybe I just like a good story.

Some obituaries are standard - name, date of birth, cause of death - while others add color. I like color.

Joe Smith is survived by Roger, his beloved dog.

Harry died on August 15th, to avoid having to make a decision in the upcoming presidential election. (Or my father, who hung on long enough to be able to cast just one last vote.)

Joan took fashion cues from no one.

A lifelong New York Mets fan and season ticket holder, Jill sent a letter to the managers every year offering advice on how to run the team.

Marilyn was always the life of the party.

Most people don’t talk about their lives (okay, some talk too much). They don’t discuss the details that transported them from childhood to maturity and onward, so we are left observing just a slice of their life - the part that is staring back at us at a particular moment; no backstory, no history.

I knew my grandfather when I was young, and mostly we talked about me. He was this robust and gregarious man, presiding over family dinners from the head of the table with a fine cocktail in hand.

It wasn’t until he died and I read his obituary that I learned about his career, the scholarships he created, and the fact that he was D-Day plus 2.

I wish I had thought to ask more questions. I wish I had known all of this while he was alive.

Reading obituaries reminds me that for many of us (or at least the lucky ones), life is long, and the worries that concern us today are often gone tomorrow. A mishap in kindergarten does not define us; a failed marriage or career does not need to be the end of our story. Often they are a new beginning or an interesting twist.

And obituaries often speak about impact, and prompt to me to ask: where do I want to make mine? What can I do with my little life to make a small difference? They remind us that we don’t need to be a rocket scientist or a Nobel Peace Prize winner to make a difference; we can start with the people we love, or a cause that we care about.

But mostly, for me, obituaries inspire. Reading about how someone overcame adversity or was generous to a fault or could whip up dinner for ten unexpected guests or was committed to a spouse for over 50 years or was remembered as the best boss or an amazingly loyal friend leaves me wanting to be a little better, do a little better, and love a little better.

There is really so much to be gained by reading obituaries.

It’s the chance to honor the deceased, and to consider their legacy and the choices they made throughout a lifetime.

It’s about connection: to the living - those left behind - and the dead; the celebration of life and closure.

And it’s introspective - what will a loved one write about me?

She hated to be late, was nothing without her morning coffee, and longed to be organized. Or something like that.

Oh, and she bypassed the headlines, the sports pages, and even the Style section of the New York Times Sunday paper, to read the obituaries.