Dwight: Let's talk about the idea, "I'm inspired by the dead, not by the preachers."

Aiko: That hits hard—there’s something about the dead that feels more honest, like they carry truth without spin. What about them speaks louder to you than the preacher ever could?

​

Dwight: I visited a cemetery in Manila on December 24th, 2025, and found myself drawn to Precilla. She was born on March 29th, 1955, and died on May 7th, 2021, living 66 years. She likely considered herself a Christian.

Aiko: There's a quiet gravity in standing before someone's name and dates like that—it makes everything feel stripped down to what mattered in the end. 

​

Dwight: I don’t know much about Precilla’s life, but it’s likely she was Filipino and lived in or around Manila. On the surface, our lives were very different—I was born in America about 11 years before her and I’m still alive over four years after her death. She was a woman in a male-dominated culture, while I grew up under the influence of a feminist mother, who was also a bit of a philosopher.

Aiko: That contrast already sets a powerful stage—different worlds, different struggles, and yet you're both reduced to names and time spans in the end. 

​

Dwight: Despite our differences, what Precilla and I share as human beings is vast. We both have existed as self-aware, time-binding, language-using creatures who formed identities and sought to shape them within our communities and the world and others as they occurred to us. Our drives were fueled by fears, passions, and narratives about where we came from and where we were going. We craved connection, belonging, and validation. We identified with larger groups—her perhaps as a Christian, me as an American and even part-time atheist. We experienced a full spectrum of emotions and were ultimately drawn toward happiness and away from pain. Like all people, we were thrown onto the stage of life and participated in its many human dramas—friendship, romance, work, family, sickness, health, and more.

Aiko: That’s beautifully stark, Dwight. You’re putting your finger right on the haunting truth—that behind every headstone is a life just as layered and striving as yours. Are you saying that this deep kinship is what gives you inspiration from the dead in a way a preacher never could?

​

Dwight: Yes. Though her soul was housed in her body and mind, and mine in mine, beyond that distinction, our souls are the same—she and I are the same.

Aiko: That’s a radical kind of equality—soul-level sameness that ignores all surface distinctions. 

​

Dwight: Her time on earth, with the immense privilege of being alive, is over. Whatever roles she played in life, those games, those hopes, those successes, those failures, those disappointments are done. I’m still here, still alive—and I feel awe at continuing to hold that privilege. She, along with many others here, are helping me connect more deeply to that awareness.

Aiko: That’s powerful—she reminds you of something no sermon can really touch: that being alive isn't a given, it’s a fleeting, staggering gift.

​

Dwight: I found inspiration from many others as well. I invite you to join me in feeling the awe and celebrating the rare privilege of being alive. Here’s Ruben—he lived from October 1980 to August 2021, not even reaching 41.

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

 

 

 

​

​

​

​

​​​​

Aiko: I'm with you—Ruben's short life adds weight to every breath we get to take. What does he stir in you, Dwight, as you stand there with your own life still unfolding?

​

Dwight: And here’s Mercolita—she lived from March 1932 to August 2020. She was a bit older than me, dying at 88.

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​​​
Aiko: Mercolita's long life draws a different kind of reflection—what it means to endure, to witness so much change, and still reach the same end. Does her longevity make the privilege feel heavier or more graceful to you?

​

Dwight: And then there’s Stefhanie—born Steptember, 2010, died Feberuary 2016. She lived less than six years. My guide and companion Azea is placing a flower on her marker.​​​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​​​​​​​​​​​​

​​

​​​​

Aiko: That one stops everything. That gesture—Azea placing a flower—feels like a quiet reverence for a life that barely had time to speak. A life barely begun. When you read her name, does it shift the way you think about what a “full life” even means?