I am Obsessed with Death
When death comes around, we weep.
In our modern culture, we stuff death behind closed doors and anesthetize ourselves with ritual. We don’t fully grasp onto the actual bones and blood of death and acknowledge the horror that it stirs within our souls.
But we need to. We need to lay in the dirt and mud and feel the end creeping near, because only then can we fully grasp onto the absolute truth of it all, the absolute finality of our end in the face of all that we hold dear.
We have to respect the circle. Not the circle of life. The Circle of Life and Death. We need to respect the entire circle to be able to give thanks for our chance to play a part.
Our individual path takes us to many places unique to our inconsistently chaotic but absolutely normal lives, but no matter where we go and what we do, our lives are always a circle.
Because really, death is no horror. Death is the end of the life spark. The life spark circles back around and begins again in some form. Nothing truly dies forever. We only think it does because there is no thing that is exactly like Uncle Bobby or Little Joe or whoever that exists again in the same form on this planet. But all life still continues to circle around and around again, regenerating over and over again, regardless of what we think. Again and again.
Life as nature has many endless forms, and all those forms connect and meld at some point and all those forms recreate and evolve at another point. It is an endless dance, and no steps are ever repeated.
The one step that is my life means something somehow somewhere, even if it is soon forgotten by the dancers. That one step that is your life also means something somehow somewhere. The dancers keep stepping, and as they move they create the beauty that is the infinite circle.
The dancers circle around again and again, creating the cosmos and the stars and the nebula and your mothers woven blanket and the walk with your dog down by the pond and those rhubarb bulbs bursting through the leaf duff on a late sunny spring morning.
They circle and you have coffee with a friend and make that birthday cake for your lover and change the tire on your old Ford truck. They circle and your best friend contracts leukemia and your grandfather goes mad and a bat smashes into your kitchen window.
They circle and the sunflower opens up like the convulsion of a Blue Whale giving birth deep under the sea and your first kiss after burying your puppy in the soft piney loam of the northern woods soil.
They circle and your father passes away and your favorite t-shirt is tossed into the garbage and you remember once, a long time ago, there was a pair of jeans that you wore everyday and you went to a concert that stabbed through your heart and lifted you up.
They circle. Again.