Be Brave

Why do I write about Death?

I write because Death is on your doorstep, but you are asleep.

Because you are miserable, stressed, anxious and overworked.

Because beings are dying.

Because your overconsumption of bullshit is not making you happy, but only numbs you.

Because you see how dirty the city is.

How trashed the ocean is.

How vapid your conversations.

How terrifying the news, how unsatisfying your money, how insecure your existence.

How lonely the silence.

How every year the sky is less populated, the spring less melodious, the butterflies more rare.

How you can’t remember the last time you saw an open prairie of blooming flowers.

Or felt the rush of delight at the sight of a mere ladybird.

When did you last come across a fruiting tree, reached out and cut an apple
cherry
peach
and bit into its fragrant juices?

When did you last come across a wild horse
donkey
bear
and looked into its eyes, felt humbled by its presence?

Can you even remember what it used to be like, back when you walked to school and flowers grew wild on the side of the road?

When summer days seemed endless?

When seeing was fresh?

When your joints were supple?

When cartwheels and daisy chains were still a part of life?

In memory I recall, as if a dream, so far away in time-thought.

But then I bring to mind the abysmal soul, and the indifference of nature, and the finality and certainty of Death.

And the axis of my existence tilts, and my world spins out of orbit, throwing me off center.

Me, this character that narrows Life’s field of vision, that clouds the aliveness with stories, with terror, with judgement.

With the palm of attention I wipe this fiction to the side, collecting thoughts, feelings and images in a pile
like breadcrumbs.

My eye is on Death, and I leap forth and claim Life’s dominion over the dream, without fear, without grief.

With utter joy and peace this sparkling, sinewy perception marries
Life and Death,
and still does the laundry, and still cleans the bathroom.

And still cares for your suffering, and my suffering.

And still misses the birds, spiders, snails, rats, rhinos, plants, all dazzling constellations of being that have gone, that will never teach us, allow us to learn
see
experience
what it is like to be that same Alive in a different form on this beautiful
miraculous
living
planet.