Dust in the wind, worm food – either way, my personal take on death is that I will know no more. It will be the end of me, the last breath, the circle of life. Last call…
It’s a heavy thought – to think that nothing follows, that there is just an end – but it suits me, suits my practical nature.
One of my sons once posted a thought, which I’ll paraphrase: if a person is only good because they’re focused on divine reward, then that person is a piece of shit. I don’t know if these were his own words, and I don’t know that he won a lot of praise or ‘likes’ for that. But if you stop and think about it, it makes sense.
If only rules, or rules hedged about with some eternal reward system are keeping you from bouncing out of control and into a psychotic rage, or killing frenzy, then you’re simply a caged rabid animal. Where is the realness, the human connection, the compassion?
If those pieces are missing, then you really are a piece of shit. Like it or not, calloused though it may be, it’s the simple truth.
There are moments when I think people see me in similar light. Cold. Unreachable. Distant. Tightly strung.
The truth is that I feel so deeply, watch ever so intently and capture essences and nuances of meaning and feeling that often escape others. It’s painful, it’s draining, and it makes me put on the tough skin of protection to keep it from shredding me into millions of little pieces. Dust. Pieces of dust that would so easily blow away, carried off to unknown places and spaces, away from me.
Another son stated when announcing a pregnancy that he and his wife were ‘growing a human’.
How aptly said.
A combination of their parts, their pieces, that attach little parts and pieces of the generations preceding them – a tiny piece of me – grew inside the womb. Destined to be an infant, this little nugget emerged last November, a wonderful wriggling, wrinkled version of itself, a new growth on the family tree.
There are few people who fit ever so perfectly into my comfort zone. My introverted self, my regulated and logical nature requires that I have plenty of space to call my own, and plenty of time to fill that space. My sons and their spouses are included in those few (hubby’s a given, a keeper, the magnet holding me in my space) and it’s always such an easy-going and comfortable time when they come to visit.
But during a recent visit, there was this edge to me, this pressure behind my eyes, this feeling of tears that could burst forth at any given moment – a strange thing when I was so relaxed and so enjoying the company.
It took words penned by my dear friend for me to realize that it was pure joy ebbing and bubbling beneath my surface. I was so powerfully moved by this new event, this new growth that it didn’t have a proper slot to fit into my logic, nothing prior to name this, to capture and label this emotion.
My bucket flows over.
My list is now such a pittance, such a distraction from the wonder of seeing what comes next, what this fabulous little seed of a human brought with her emergence…
Bucket lists are too limiting. What I want to see before I die, I cannot even begin to fathom.
But the end has suddenly changed course, because not only will parts of me continue through my son after I die, now there will be parts of me to last another generation. That, my friends, that’s what’s real.