how many springs
I suggested yet again that our death is introduced when we are born, the seed of our departure planted upon our arrival, and perfect darkness as a backdrop for all the colors and sights and sounds of this little, lovely (hopefully at times seen as lovely) life. Can’t I just hang that one up for once?
No.
I don’t think I was ever one to wade in the shallows; all you need do is raise your eyes once and there it is, the Ocean, and I raised my eyes early. Once you have seen the Ocean, who can look at land the same way, or pretend that only the ankles will get wet, and that there is no danger of drowning?
I don’t dwell on my passing, but when I remember it, every fruit tastes sweeter, every kiss is gentler and more passionate, every day more precious, and every anger disarmed. Who rages from their deathbed? What is there left to rage about? And who would you not forgive everything, when you stand with a foot through the door, light radiating through your being, the tiny flicker of your life collected behind you, your attempts, your failings… like everyone’s human attempts. Like everyone’s humble failings. Like everyone’s life. Like everyone’s death.
Is that gloomy? Hmm. Well, If you wish to live on a real live planet, where sun is replaced by rain on a regular basis, tide flows in and out following planetary attractions much greater than our wishes, fruit ripens and falls into our palms (if your palm doesn’t catch it, it rots)… then I think you need to redefine gloom. If you push the rain away, you live in a desert; say “stop the tide” and the lungs of the world cease to breathe; shun rot, and never again savor a sun-engorged fruit.
I was thinking about the value of a flower yesterday. I had walked round the reservoir, under perfect pre-summer skies, and stopped every fifty paces alongside another late lilac, early blackberry, or heavily-laden wild rose. I put my nose in those petals and drank deep. I have seen silk roses that rivaled the original for beauty; even those with a slight perfume added. Very nice. And the… what? mind? senses? heart?… were not taken in for a moment. There is something so patently artificial (an artifice, a forgery) in these false roses, something so obviously dead, that instead of being drawn toward their petals, I am slightly repelled. In fact - and here is my theory - it is precisely that the living rose came from nothing, from a seed like I came from a seed, blooms a few days in the sun, only to wilt or be torn down with the next heavy rain… the fact that the rose leans toward completion from the moment it sprouts is what gives it delight. If not ephemeral, where is beauty?
The mountains we can watch crumble, if ever so slowly. Or, even as they appear eternal, the stars themselves are burning themselves out. The wheels of the galaxies turn with these sparkling lives toward a time when their engines sputter and collapse. The same sentiment paints nostalgia, fills the eyes with tears at departure, fills the heart with yearning for connection, with joy at a birth… knowing all the time… you have to know, all the time… in a wink the dramas and desires of that small life will have risen up, aged, declined, and left a sweet memory on those who witnessed its passing. The common thread to each pain is that at its heart there was love and there was desire.
So as it is embraced, Death the teacher - she or he - doesn’t chill your bones, but makes everything in the world intensely beautiful. That’s the lesson. Were you listening to the sadness? The light of the world dims. Or to the love behind the sadness? Ahhh, the light of the world is every color you can imagine.