Only the dying are really alive.

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“If only the living can die, only the dying are really alive.”

— James Hillman

I once submitted a piece of writing for a flash fiction competition. The criteria, as far as I can remember, were to write a short story in no more than two hundred words, which was a tough yet fun challenge.

Although I wasn’t shortlisted as a finalist, I was unusually pleased with what I submitted. My story depicted a couple at the beginning of a romantic relationship, just as the world is coming to an end. In the thrilling denouement (joke), they decide to face the apocalypse together as a kind of tribute to humanity.

I thought it was quite neat, although it was far from an original idea; since I wrote that story, about fifteen years ago, there’s been several films and TV shows that have explored similar territory.

It resonates because it juxtaposes aspects of human existence that are supposedly incongruent: love and death, connection and fear, hope and tragedy.

This memory came back to me recently because of an upcoming film that I’m looking forward to seeing called ‘House Of Dynamite’, directed by double Oscar winner Kathryn Bigelow.

The film imagines the launch of a nuclear missile towards the US. No-one knows where it has come from, nor whether it is real or an accident, and therefore everyone is uncertain how to respond knowing that the future of billions of people depends on their choices.

“Reflection on the end of times, or eschatology, is a major dimension of the human experience, and the total sense of loss of everything one could ever contribute to is an extremely powerful experience for many people.”

— Jem Bendell

The film re-tells the same 18-minutes from different locations and viewpoints, 18-minutes being the time until the missile hits its target. From the trailer and the reviews, it builds huge tension and poses stark human and moral questions that get to the heart of what existence really means. 18-minutes is both realistic (in terms of nuclear war) and terrifying.

As I may have written here before, I’m a huge fan of apocalyptic films, not for the action, gore or violence but for the first 20 minutes or so when we get to see how people, institutions and power respond to impending disaster - how society and humanity flourish or collapse. A good apocalypse film asks the question ‘Who are we really when the end is nigh?’.

At some point in your life, someone will have asked you what you would do if you had a year to live (or some variation of this question). It’s a question that I find interesting but only up to a point, because once everyone talks about the most meaningful things (like their families), they usually begin to outline the same story - travel the world, do those bucket list things, spend time with people (but in an unspecified way).

“Neither in the sky nor in mid-ocean, nor by entering into mountain clefts, nowhere in the world is there a place where one will not be overcome by death.”

— Buddha

Just like my fetish for apocalypse films, it’s the opening act of the answer to those questions that’s most interesting, as well as the constraint of a very real and very final deadline.

What would you do when there’s not much time left, not enough to do much at all? Who and what would you prioritise? What would you definitely not do?

There’s a question that I find more interesting and revealing to contemplate, and I’ll give my answer to it below: what would you do if you had 24 hours left to live?

You can’t see everyone. You can’t do all those cool things you’ve always wanted to do. You can’t travel very far.

You probably can’t even eat all your favourite foods or read your favourite books (unless that’s all you do).

Here’s what I’d do, and I’m writing this as I go, without too much thought:

I’d sit with my wife and my two-year old son, hold them close and tell them I love them. Over and over. My son would probably interrupt asking for a banana and that would make me laugh and snort snot out of my nose.

I’d hug them constantly, gaze into their eyes, feel their warmth and a presence that goes far beyond physical. I’d do this throughout the day.

I would call my mum and tell her I forgive her. I would call my eldest brother and tell him I forgive him. I would call my sister, my other brother and his family and tell them all I love them.

I’d call my friends and tell them I love them. Not all of them, maybe the eight or so that really matter. The ones who have known the real highs and lows of my life, seen my light and my darkness, and love me because of it.

I’d meditate, like I do every morning. Maybe I’d add some prayer too, not to ask for something, but to remember something.

I’d flick through the books on my shelf, maybe pick out that collection of Modern Toss cartoons and give myself a chuckle. That would probably lead me to watching some old Alan Partridge videos or some Fast Show and Father Ted.

I read some poetry - Mary Oliver, the Romantics, Rumi, Bashō, that collection of Japanese death poems.

I’d go to the shops and buy some food for a homecooked meal - vegetables and fruit that still have soil on them, fresh bread, some tea. With my wife, we’d prepare lunch and dinner together, playing our favourite music in the kitchen. We’d dance, cry, hug, laugh.

I would not vacuum the apartment. Only my wife will appreciate the gravity of this.

I’d go for a long walk in our local park with my wife and son, inhaling the smells of leaves, flowers, grass, mud and bark. I’d visit my favourite tree, the great old oak in the middle of the park, hug the mossy east side of it and say goodbye.

I talk and talk with my wife, about whatever came up. Maybe we’d reminisce, maybe we’d contemplate big questions, maybe we’d riff off each other’s surrealist humour and make each other belly laugh like we do most days.

At home, we’d turn the lights off, put candles on, get comfortable. We’d eat dinner together. We’d play some music, my son bashing about on his little guitar, me on the harmonica and my wife singing. I’d hold my son until he fell asleep and we’d all huddle together.

I’d feel regrets. Yes, let’s be honest, I’d feel regrets. For not pursuing the dreams I still have but haven’t found the courage for. But a bittersweet and loving regret, a kind of “Ah, you silly fool. Never mind, you’ve had a great ride, really you have.”

And maybe the memories would come flooding then, all the high and lows, the mad and improbable adventures, the people I’ve known and loved, the ones I’ve not loved, the glories and the horrors, the crazy twists of fate, the signs and messages that suddenly seem so clear. It was all there. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.

I’d think about my dad. I’m coming home dad, see you soon.

Close my eyes, rest my head on my wife’s shoulder, hands intertwined. And that would be me.

I wrote that without stopping or thinking too much. I’m sure there’s something or someone I’ve missed, but that’s what came up.

Over to you:

What would you do if you knew you only had 24 hours left to live?

Don’t overthink it, just write it down, and keep going until it feels complete.

Now read it back.

What does it tell you about how you’re living now?

“Any careful consideration of life entails reflections of death, and the confrontation with reality means facing mortality. We never come fully to grips with life until we are willing to wrestle with death.”

— James Hillman

“The way in which we approach our death is critical to the experience we have of life.”

— Ram Dass

Tipping Point: navigating collapse and crisis.

I’ve mentioned Carole Cadwalladr’s fearless investigative journalism before. She’s just co-founded and launched a new journalist-led and reader-funded publication called The Nerve.

I urge you to read this piece about why they’re launching it - it will explain a huge amount about what’s going on in the world.

I’m not going to tell you it’s a cheerful read, but come on, we’re grown-ups and I think it’s time we stopped looking for feel-good vibes while the world burns. None of us is immune to what’s happening and what’s coming.

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About me.

I’m a leadership coach, consultant and facilitator living in Berlin.

Contact me to: 

• Make sense of what’s going on with you, your work and your life through my coaching practice.

• Make sense of what’s going on in your organisation through group dialogues, workshops and strategy sessions.

• Understand your organisation and its culture as if it were a person, through The Human Organisation framework.

• Have a real conversation.

At the heart of my work is helping individuals and organisations to figure out what is really going on.

You can also find out more about my work with men & masculinity here.