Sorry I haven't written in a while. For one thing, I've been enveloped in celebrating Christmas/New Year's, so I think you should cut me a little slack, but also, I've written two short screenplays in the last 4 days, and I'm playing around with a third now, so I've been busy...
I did, however, want to at least post something, if for no other reason than to rid myself of the weird guilt I feel for letting down whoever actually reads this thing.
And so I submit to you for your consideration, some random thoughts I had the other night while watching the news. It was actually Fox News Edge, which comes on after the "real" news, and consists of two anchors sitting at a desk and basically doing a miniature version of "The View" about hot current topics/events, etc. Like discussions on the worst celebrity scandals of '09 and does airport security really work and should a law be passed to lower the volume of tv commercials. (Yes, I actually watched this.)
So, on this particular night when I was watching Fox News Edge, the anchors were discussing, among other things, Brittany Murphy's untimely death. And I was amazed at how flippant they were about it. They basically said, "You may not know who she was because she wasn't crazy like the other Britney, but she died and Hollywood is sad. But at least she got a few good films in before she croaked!"
It wasn't quite that bad. But it was definitely void of sympathy. And I couldn't help but wonder how I'd have felt if I'd been a member of Brittany Murphy's family, watching that newscast. I wonder what it's like, to hear a loved one's life summed up like that.
"Well, at least she did a few good movies before she passed on!"
Is that really what I'd want people to remember about someone I loved? I don't think so. And it's certainly not what I'd want people to say about me. Even if I never act in any big budget, Hollywood movie with Glen Close (my favorite! she's awesome!) or Julie Andrews, I'd like to think that after my funeral, people would be genuinely grieved. I don't mean to say that I hope people are miserable and walk around in black sackcloth for the next year, but I suppose I'm saying, I hope people are affected by my death. I guess it seems to me that people who are making a difference with their lives always seem to have died too soon - even if they were 93 and incredibly ill - there's a sense that a light has gone out, that an emptiness has come into the world with their passing. Whereas, people who kind of meander through life with no real ambition or purpose or generosity of spirit, well.. they just seem to die and that's that.
A few night's ago, I was spending some time with a group of friends, and we got to talking about how, generally speaking, Americans suck at dealing with pain. We self-medicate for everything. It's why there's such a huge epidemic of prescription drug addiction sweeping our nation. The moment we face adversity, the moment things get difficult or painful, we run to get numbed. We end up living like zombies, not feeling much of anything, but hey, at least we're not sad.
It's funny, though, because pain is actually designed to be a good thing. It's what keys us in to the fact that there's a problem.
But unfortunately, most of us would rather live less than exciting lives than square our shoulders and face a problem head on. We trade what's challenging and risky and deep and full for what's easy and comfortable and monotonous.
Now hear me, I don't mean to say in any way that this was the case with Brittany Murphy. I didn't know her (although I did meet her once...see picture below), and so I can't presume to know what sort of effect she had on the circle of people who did know her. She may not have had much of a lasting impact on a national or global scale, but I don't believe one has to affect the whole world in order to have lived an impactful, meaningful life.
(me, my little sister, and Brittany Murphy in NYC, 2004)
Recently, I was reading in Don Miller's latest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, and he was talking about a friend's funeral he'd attended, and how after the service and the graveside goodbyes, the family of the woman who'd died (Janice was her name), and about a hundred or more friends of theirs (Don being one), went back to the family's large, mountain-side home to be together and eat casseroles and sit around the back deck fire pit and reminisce. And Don recounts how moved he was by the countless stories people had to tell about this one little lady's life - some inspirational, some sad, some deeply hilarious.
Donald Miller concludes that chapter of his book with the following words:
"Later, at around two in the morning, when there were only a few dozen people at their house, I looked across the deck at Steve and Ben sitting and talking to Jim [the woman's husband], and as they laughed and drank their wine, I wondered how much it costs to be rich in friends and how many years and stories and scenes it takes to make a rich life happen. You can't build an end scene as beautiful as this by sitting on a couch, I thought to myself. And I also knew that while this group had experienced a devastating loss, the ones who remained were richer still because of her passing, as though Janice left an emotional inheritance of stories that would continue to be told, stories that would be passed down to her children.
I looked across the deck at Steve sitting and talking to Jim, and as they laughed and drank their wine, I wondered about the story we were writing and wanted even more to write a better story for myself, something that leaves a beautiful feeling even as the credits roll."
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