Being dead doesn't hurt. It's the dying that's hard.
After the end of anything, at least for me, a part of what I feel is relief. I say this even as I contemplate the truth that I never want anything to end. I become so attached. Unravelling what has worn itself out is terribly nerve wracking. You wouldn't believe the grieving, the despair, the tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth I go through at the end of things. Oh the drama! But - once a thing is done, in addition to all other attending emotions, I always feel liberated. Do you know what I'm talking about?
When one door closes, a window definitely always opens, always. Even if it's the end of something fantastic, or if it was sudden and unexpected, afterwards I feel a nice breeze blowing through the now opened window. I'm talking about the end of relationships with individuals, with communities, the end of a job, the last few weeks before leaving town forever. There's also the end of ends, physical death.
Being dead doesn't hurt, it's the dying that's hard. What I'm wondering today is why. If it's inevitable (nothing lasts forever) then why is it so hard to let go, say goodbye, change gears, jobs, relationships, cities? Is all the keening and grieving really necessary? Why? If I could remember that after the end, there is relief, if I could remember the fresh breeze and spaciousness that follows, would that consciousness ease the rigors of letting go?
No way to answer for myself, since I never remember. During the dying process, I'm outraged, frightened by the portents of change. I hang on tighter than ever. You'd think, knowing about that window waiting to open, I could be more graceful. You'd think.
7 comments:
A belief in a life after death is the open window that allows some people to gracefully let go. My belief in an afterlife gets stronger with each passing day. It's sunny and pink (much like your last picture) and there is such nice music playing -- a string quartet? -- through that open window. I'm not thinking about resurrection, just a comfortable beautiful peace after the end.
Peace, love, and reunion with those who have already passed. I see it, too, and yeah, come to think of it - it IS pink!
But I'm talking about every ending, the never ending experience of things ending within the span of a lifetime. Sometimes it seems like a lot.
but in the end, it's always worth the sacrifice because of the redemption, the breeze coming in the open window. The stories of Passover and Easter are just so perfect! Go figure.
when you're in the grieving, that's where you are. The whole world can tell you "it's for the best, you'll feel better, a new day is coming, a better opportunity, a nicer job - whatever). Loss has its own rythm and its own pace. Just can't rush those blooms on the tree by pulling open the buds, unfortunately. The good thing about aging is that it becomes easier to remember that "la joie vient toujours après la peine" (joy always comes after sadness).
Those pink flowers against the sky? Made me breathe a "whoosh" of delight (bet that's how the tree feels too).
"You'd think, knowing about that window waiting to open, I could be more graceful. You'd think."
Oh yes.
How often do I also find myself thinking this after desperately trying to force the window open longing to let some fresh air in. Then when I have given up I realise that somehow while I was facing away from it, banging my head against the wall in despair, the window gently opened by itself and fresh spring air is filling the room.
Beautiful photos, Reya! I am SO jealous of your spring blooms and blue sky. sigh. I'm ready to open my window to spring and let winter die!
When I let go of something I don't always feel relief. Sometimes it lingers on and on, clinging to my brain like a piece of pesky fuzz I can't get off.
Other times there is that very sweet feeling of freedom and liberation; like when we left Colorado for New Jersey. It's a great feeling.
ohhhhhhh I could gaze upon the pink of the blossoms in your last photo for hours-- that is truly the shade of my favorite color-- so lovely.
i don't know aything about death except when it comes I want it to find me planting cabbages, just like Montaigne . .
bisous, bp
Isn't it truly lovely when winter dies and spring is born?
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