In recent weeks, I've been thinking of death. The beloved partner of a friend passed away after a motorcycle accident. He had just retired. She is floating, can't accept that he is suddenly not there to touch and feel when he is so present in spirit. I remember his warm, confident smile, as if he was embarking on some fun expedition.
Then, a few days ago, I heard about a friend who passed away in his sleep. He was only 51. I hadn't seen him since we were teenagers. I can clearly see him coming to my house to say goodbye before he left for his studies in Europe. He had large, kind, innocent eyes, and dark straight hair that he kept flipping from his eyes. I will always remember him that way.
Then, there is the nun from my high school who was so different from the rest, never lectured me about why I didn't go to church. Love seemed to radiate from her pores. I could feel her positive energy seeping through me with a mere eye contact or nod of her head. This charismatic person is still alive and well in spirit to all those she touched even though she passed away from cancer recently.
When people I know die, and I haven't seen them for a long time, I feel the pain of those who lived with them, how they will miss them, but I don't feel their physical absence myself. They're still alive to me, in my mind, in whichever way they've affected my life.
Then, there are all these people who died in the Tsunami, in New Orleans, in Pakistan, those who die from wars, hatred, revenge, violence. Even though I don't know them, I imagine the horror of such deaths, and cry for them.
And here we are, lucky to be alive. Why don't we celebrate it more? Every day? Every hour? Every minute?
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