When I Die, I Hope I’m Fancy Dust

“When I die, I hope I’m fancy dust.”

— Tales from the Universe

There is something wonderfully ridiculous about caring what happens to you after you die.

Think about it.

You’re dead.

And somehow there is still a tiny voice inside you saying:

“Yes, but I’d like to look good.”

I understand.

If I’m going to become dust, I don’t want to be ordinary dust.

I want to be fancy dust.

Perhaps something with a little sparkle.

Maybe the kind of dust that catches the sunlight when somebody opens a window.

If the universe is going to recycle me, I would at least like to leave an interesting residue.

The Mage’s Last Concern

Death is one of the great places where the ego reveals itself.

The ego is remarkably committed to continuing to have opinions.

“What happens when I die?”

“Will anyone remember me?”

“Where will I go?”

“What will become of me?”

Notice the wording.

What will become of me?

As though the universe has a little storage locker labeled with our name.

As though existence owes us a continuation of our particular arrangement of atoms.

As though the great mystery of death is primarily concerned with what happens to me.

And yet…

That’s funny.

Because death is precisely the point where the “me” we’re so concerned about stops being the thing it was.

The character leaves the stage.

And we’re standing backstage worrying about the costume.

Fancy Dust

But perhaps that’s why I like the idea.

“When I die, I hope I’m fancy dust.”

It doesn’t pretend to solve death.

It doesn’t construct an elaborate theology.

It doesn’t demand certainty.

It just laughs.

Fine.

Maybe I become dust.

Make it fancy.

There is something freeing about that.

The mage doesn’t need to know exactly what happens after the final page.

The mage can simply admit:

“I have no idea.”

And then enjoy the absurdity of having preferences about it anyway.

The Universe Doesn’t Need My Resume

We spend so much time trying to leave something behind.

An accomplishment.

A reputation.

A body of work.

A name.

A legacy.

And there is nothing wrong with any of those things.

But there is a strange irony in trying desperately to become permanent in a universe that is built almost entirely out of change.

Stars die.

Mountains erode.

Oceans move.

Civilizations rise and disappear.

Even the atoms in our bodies have histories that stretch far beyond us.

And somehow I am sitting here thinking:

“Yes, but please remember me.”

The universe might respond:

“My dear, I remember everything by turning it into something else.”

That is a very different kind of immortality.

The Afterlife of Everything

Maybe I don’t need to survive death.

Maybe what matters is that nothing is wasted.

The warmth I gave somebody.

The laugh.

The lesson.

The kindness.

The strange little sentence that helped someone through a difficult night.

The food I cooked.

The tree I planted.

The person who became a little more courageous because I believed in them.

None of those things require me to remain present.

They continue without me.

That’s perhaps the most beautiful irony of all.

We want to survive forever so that the things we love can continue.

But perhaps the greatest gift we can give the world is something that doesn’t require us to be there.

And Still…

I still hope I’m fancy dust.

I don’t want to become so spiritually sophisticated that I lose the ability to make ridiculous requests of the universe.

I want to be able to look at the great mystery and say:

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“But if I’m going to become dust…”

“…make it fancy.”

Maybe that’s not a failure to transcend the ego.

Maybe it’s a little wink at it.

Yes, little ego.

You would like the universe to have excellent postmortem accommodations.

I see you.

And you are adorable.

But here’s the secret:

You don’t actually need to know.

You don’t need to know what happens after death to make today meaningful.

You don’t need an eternal guarantee before you love someone.

You don’t need to know where the road ends before you walk it.

And you don’t need to solve the universe before you are allowed to enjoy being here.

One day the mage will put down the staff.

The spell will end.

The atoms will go wandering.

The name will become a memory.

And perhaps somewhere, somehow, a little bit of what you were will catch the sunlight.

Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe it’s even beautiful.

And if not—

at least make me fancy dust.