If You Were Born, You Will Die. August 5th, ano 2

 

August 5th, ano 2

MORNING MEDITATION

bobb

If you are born, you will die.

In between those two events you will experience many things. To fully engage Life, one must leave your soul vulnerable. As your hourglass empties, you grow strong bonds within the world - people, pets, children. There is nothing in itself that is wrong with this. We are social creatures and to mingle is a sign of health. To not to do so, is to live a stunted and an unexperienced life. But fully embracing the people in your life, comes with a cost, one often not considered when we grow those bonds. And that cost is—you will experience grief. Realization of that alone is often enough to limit the growth of that relationship, to walk among the potted bonsai, instead of giant redwoods.

It is no coincidence that the deepest of these bonds start early in our lives, be it nursing at a breast or holding hands as we say "I do". Even at age 25 we are too young to fully understand the last paragraph of the agreement which states "...at an unspecified future date, you agree to accept an invoice for that relationship and will pay in full immediately upon receipt of said invoice".

So we, with innocents, grow a bond with the Other and our branches grow so entwined, only the gardener remembers when we were in fact two souls. At some point a special courier inspects to see that the documents are in order, and taking his worn satchel, begins his journey to the doorstep of your heart. We may be notified of his departure or we may be totally unaware until he rings your doorbell. But ring the doorbell he does. It is when you answer that ring that you are introduced to grief. No one escapes suffering in this life. None of us are exempt from loss, pain, illness, and death of someone we hold precious. How is it that we have so little understanding of these essential experiences? How is it that we have attempted to keep grief separated from our lives and only begrudgingly acknowledge its presence at the most obvious of times, such as a funeral of a loved one? The death of one who is close to our heart, can come with unimaginable cruelty -- we are forced on our knees to pray to a god we hate, through tears and gritted teeth, fervently asking that our loved die, and die as quickly as possible , that that person whom we would give our life in order to spare theirs, have their life taken, taken as quick and cleanly as possible.

This does not just happen once in our lives but time and time again. We sit at the foot of a bed for hours and days on end, watching endless numbers scroll across the screens, duly recording the taking of a beloved one, one small piece at a time. We survive these events, but we do not come away unscathed, we in fact stagger towards the finish line, a limping, bloodied hulk. Our withered souls, whisper, "Abba! Abba! Where are you???, "I can not drink this cup! I just can not do this!, take it away! P-l-e-a-s-e, please take it away!"...and then we drink.

At that moment a seed is planted in our heart, and our soul is given charge over it. We protest, angrily shouting out, we can barely breath!, yet you want me to tend this damned seed?? We fail at this assignment...at least at first we do. We cannot bear to even look at the seed, let alone water and tend to it. But these are the seeds of Compassion, they can lie dormant in a dusty corner of a bombed-out soul for years and still come to life when watered by tears of grief revisited. As long as they are not watered, we remain cut off, stooped and shuffling, a desiccated and gnarled husk. But it is this very ache in our heart, the same ache that takes us back again and again to the Before that now begins to whisper for us to honor what we experience, both The Before and The After. Tentatively we deposit a handful of dust on the windowsill of our heart and gently press the seed deep into it...and then we weep, and the tears of the deepest anguish pour drops upon the dust.

And this is how, out of hell and desolation, out of carnage and rot, comes a spark of a reborn soul. We again hear, however faintly, the music of the universe, we cannot yet sing to it, but we find ourselves humming it when we are alone. Slowly we can revisit the loss without experiencing the searing pain it once inflicted. Instead we realize we are not revisiting so much as we are becoming aware of something that is always with us, things are muted, melancholy still hangs heavy in the air, but there is a sense of expectancy in the air, we hear for the first time in a long time, the laughter of children at play. It is then we pick up the phone and say, "Marty, put on your coat and meet me down at the corner, we can walk to the bakery and I'll buy you a doughnut and coffee and we can talk". And that is the day of your re-birth.

Luvya,

bobb