I once read about a writer who went to assist an autopsy. All her life she had been an atheist but having seen all the tiny connections of a dead human body ‘made her rethink about the possibility of an existing God‘ – she wrote.
We are literally inhabiting a magical box.
I remember the morning after we buried my mom. I woke up, made myself a cup of coffee and suddenly realized she was not in her bed, where she had spent the last two months of her life.
Her tired bones and sick flesh were now resting under the humid soil. Soon eaten by worms. Her magical box definitively stopped working on April 5th, 2016.
In these twelve years spent without her, I deviated my path many times. I used to rebel against an anger that for a long time had no flow. I didn’t even know how to call it. Maybe I was a bit too young and wild to reflect on these things. To understand the value of my own body and health.
These days I try to say ‘thanks’ for being lucky to have reached here. To wake up and feel the joy as I am still breathing, even if acceptance is a tough and steep road.
Being given time to spend with the ones we love, to do what we love doing, exploring this planet and rejoicing even in our pains, is a gift.
Sometimes I think about my dying mom’s eyes. Where today I can get that kind of fear she mostly never told me about. I was too far away from what she was experiencing even if with my heart and body I was right there, next to her death bed.
Today those eyes are my anchor for a life of gratitude. Thinking about her is my motivation for never stop searching for my own life purpose.
Everybody is afraid of death for the simple reason that we have not tasted of life yet. The man who knows what life is, is never afraid of death; he welcomes death. Whenever death comes he hugs death, he embraces death, he welcomes death, he receives death as a guest. To the man who has not known what life is, death is an enemy; and to the man who knows what life is, death is the ultimate crescendo of life.
When we leave the ones we love, the ocean becomes a tiny puddle. The sun turns cold. And this is the mystery of life, when who we leave behind will maybe go with life crisis and change. This is when, days or month or hours before we go, if we are ought to be given to know, we can still choose to damn ourselves forever or be thankful for what we had.
Feels cold rationalizing inside me the amount of time passed by
I wrote you a letter on this place some years ago
and all the words poured down in twelve years!
Oh, what are those words?
What is human in front of the eternal dance of the ocean?
It is sitting here and looking at all those years spent without you
Twelve years losing myself, finding myself,
living or just avoiding to die?
And I still find you in every song
in every shape of a white cloud
inside the freshness of the cotton linen on my bed
I smell the softness of your skin
Touch the small hands of yours
and still, see your smile…
Your death wakes me up from dreaming
while the sound of your soul keeps me alive
and burns this love to never die