as i drive i touch my neck, my chin, the beginning of my face and i practice, i will die, i will die, I. will die. and outside of myself i recognize the countless other i 's that come into and out of being. i will die. it is inconceivable and yet true.
the other day my son corrected me on something. i don't rightly remember what but whatever it was it elicited this response, "well, really mom," he said with a casual tilt of his head, secret informer, leaning his shoulder with practiced wisdom, "we are all dying, just some of us more quickly or slowly than others." such wisdom at such an age, only 11.
but days later i thought to test his wisdom. perhaps he had learned only the words and mannerisms framing the truth, not the truth itself. while sitting together at the kitchen island talking about a possible trip i might do on my own i said to both my children, "but really, if i ever die while running or hiking, by bear or by bad water, please at least know i died doing something important to me, something i love."
my daughter seemed dismissive and possibly bored with this but i can't know the depths of her response. she is so complicated and distant. my son however stared into my eyes in deepening pools of fear and despair searching for something. after all i do run, i do hike and bears and bad water are real, therefore death is a real possibility.
i hooked him with words before he was completely lost, "truly son, it would be ok. i will die some time." i touched his hand.
he rose up from the dark pool toward me. "ya," he said, cutting into his pie with his fork, "i could die too, even right now."
i looked at him seriously. "this is true, you know," i said.
"yes," he replied, having a large bite of his pie and speaking through it, "and mom, just know, if i die right now, i've died doing something i love."
raspberry pie is his favorite.
i turn off the highway onto the dirt road. i will die, i continue to practice, not knowing even of myself how deeply i know this. beside me on the floorboard rattles an old bottle of water. i plan to find a wild rose to bring home for my window. in this way i mean to practice both being here and letting go.
.
collecting wild roses
the woman went out into the world to collect a wild rose because a wild rose evoked in her a memory, hers but not hers alone, nostalgia tied to longing, not only for the past, but also for the future.
and then the woman went out into the world to collect berries and wood to make a table. she made a bowl. she made a window. she put the berries into the bowl and ate them in the morning light shining through the window.
and then the woman went out into the world to collect more. she collected more and more and more, acorns and cedar boughs, stones and mollusks, twilight, dusk and all that existed between them, consuming happily that which spoke to her essentially and necessarily.
her body was found some years later on the floor beside the table, the bowl tipped over, the whole of the world once gathered, now spilled out.
the other day my son corrected me on something. i don't rightly remember what but whatever it was it elicited this response, "well, really mom," he said with a casual tilt of his head, secret informer, leaning his shoulder with practiced wisdom, "we are all dying, just some of us more quickly or slowly than others." such wisdom at such an age, only 11.
but days later i thought to test his wisdom. perhaps he had learned only the words and mannerisms framing the truth, not the truth itself. while sitting together at the kitchen island talking about a possible trip i might do on my own i said to both my children, "but really, if i ever die while running or hiking, by bear or by bad water, please at least know i died doing something important to me, something i love."
my daughter seemed dismissive and possibly bored with this but i can't know the depths of her response. she is so complicated and distant. my son however stared into my eyes in deepening pools of fear and despair searching for something. after all i do run, i do hike and bears and bad water are real, therefore death is a real possibility.
i hooked him with words before he was completely lost, "truly son, it would be ok. i will die some time." i touched his hand.
he rose up from the dark pool toward me. "ya," he said, cutting into his pie with his fork, "i could die too, even right now."
i looked at him seriously. "this is true, you know," i said.
"yes," he replied, having a large bite of his pie and speaking through it, "and mom, just know, if i die right now, i've died doing something i love."
raspberry pie is his favorite.
i turn off the highway onto the dirt road. i will die, i continue to practice, not knowing even of myself how deeply i know this. beside me on the floorboard rattles an old bottle of water. i plan to find a wild rose to bring home for my window. in this way i mean to practice both being here and letting go.
collecting wild roses
the woman went out into the world to collect a wild rose because a wild rose evoked in her a memory, hers but not hers alone, nostalgia tied to longing, not only for the past, but also for the future.
and then the woman went out into the world to collect berries and wood to make a table. she made a bowl. she made a window. she put the berries into the bowl and ate them in the morning light shining through the window.
and then the woman went out into the world to collect more. she collected more and more and more, acorns and cedar boughs, stones and mollusks, twilight, dusk and all that existed between them, consuming happily that which spoke to her essentially and necessarily.
her body was found some years later on the floor beside the table, the bowl tipped over, the whole of the world once gathered, now spilled out.
