Paulus Memento Mori

Few thoughts give me cold sweats as much as thinking about my own death.

As blood rushes to my head, my body feels cold and clammy (not exactly how you want to feel when thinking about death). Despite this feeling, I think about my own death a lot. Not in a morbid “how will I die?” and “why was the weight of all those cereal boxes enough to suffocate me?” sort of way. 

These reflections are part of Memento Mori. No, it’s not a Harry Potter spell (put your wand down). Rather it’s the near timeless reflection of our own mortality. It is Latin for “remember you have to die”. I learned about Memento Mori through the Stoic philosopher, Seneca. Yet, the idea of Memento Mori is prevalent across different religions, cultures, and epochs. It is the ultimate gut-check to your ego, the undressing of all our social conditioning spurred on by the inescapable idea that our appointment with our maker, or grave, will happen in an unpredictable manner at an unannounced date. 

Having reflected upon Memento Mori for a few years now, I started to feel that every gut-punch, and cold sweat, wasn’t necessarily making me feel better. Acknowledging my mortality was not making me more courageous, intentional, or grateful. Instead, Memento Dori acted as that person that stands next to the automatic doors at the supermarket in the middle of winter, unaware that they are letting the gusts of icy wind smack my face (I may be exaggerating, but you know who I’m talking about). It indulged the nihilist in me, brought me back to my regrets and “could haves”, and drained emotional energy. 

I pushed through, however. After all, these great Stoic philosophers that I’ve read and admired for years now emphasized the importance of Memento Mori. In one of his letters, Seneca writes: 

“Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s books each day. … The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time.”

Ok, Seneca. But does Memento Mori have to suck so much? And I have to do this every day?

Oof.

So lately, I’ve been trying a different approach. It hit me one afternoon, as I was scrolling through the photos of my latest trip to Europe. Centuries of history, fields of flowers, skies that make you question if the sky is really blue, the smiles of my friends, the arrowed glances of love.

What if this was the last day I would be able to see anything?

At first, my body went through its familiar cycle—blood rushing to head, cold body, clammy extremities. Soon enough, that feeling subsided, and I reckoned a deep feeling of wonder. I looked around my room and everything seemed magnificent! The eggshell white textured walls, the mahogany of my library staircase, the navy blue thick yarn of my blanket. These things that I interact with all day, and typically pay no attention to, all of a sudden felt like the first time you see a Matisse painting. That simple question brought out an intense level of presence. And then gratitude. How lucky am I to see all these things! 

Over the next few days, I started asking myself similar questions “What if this was the last day I would be able to hear?” “What if this was the last day I would be able to walk?” “What if this was the last day I would be able to taste?” Each question brought upon the same cycle:

Oh, shit! → Wonder & Observance → Gratitude

These reflections became a modified version of Memento Mori, or Paulus Memento Mori as I refer to them now (Paulus is Latin for small). And now that I’ve embraced this reflection for a few days, it’s a stark contrast from how I felt when I thought about Memento Mori. 

The goal of reflecting upon your mortality is two fold: On one end, it helps you realize that a lot of your concerns in life dwarf when compared to your mortality, and secondly, a constant awareness that your life could end at any time, prevents you from accruing regrets, or leaving things unsaid. 

So I will still practice Memento Mori and embrace it in its full unpleasantness—I doubt it will ever change, and that’s probably the point, anyways. 

But I will also continue adding Paulus Memento Mori reflections. These reflections have filled me with wonder, intention, and gratitude. They make me see the common in a new way, lest I forget the privilege of seeing in the first place. They make me embrace all tastes, even those that just don’t hit well (sorry, olives). They make me pay particular attention to the nuances of sound, the synth behind that beat, the octave the singer hits in the chorus. They help me feel life more richly (warts and all). 

I hope that after reading this, this reflection will have the same effect on you.