My son returns to college this weekend so I’m thinking about death.
Mainly my own.
How everything good ends.
And how life is such a trickster.
Sucking us in by love, disarming us of our defenses, distracting us with the infinity of doing, and then VOILA–death! Ending. Finality.
Having a family is the worse (or is it “worst.”) Simply because it seems so permanent. Particularly in the trenches. Like the diapers and the feedings and the messes will never end. And when they did, I was HAPPY.
But now, I’m 51. With a second foot into the decade that took the lives of my beloved mother and the grandmother I adored.
Plus it’s winter. A particularly hard and cold and frozen week of January in Vermont. The darkest time of year. And in Paris, a bunch of people were butchered.
“We’re ready to die,” said the terrorists.
A friend relays that he had a moment on his mat this week where he felt that it was okay to die. Really okay.
I had that once too. On my knees. In the garden. Rain soaked. My hands in dirt.
What if we woke every day with this aim?
Without saving any love or expression “for later.”
To be ready TO DIE in each moment.
But not like this: