Death and Love

swinging_the_skeleton_by_lucasrsilva-d80bc2s

Thoughts on Death and Love – and how they are not, nor should they ever be mutually exclusive. To truly love something or one deeply, is to love it’s end as well – in whatever form that takes.

Unfurling memories of friends, of kin – those passed on but far from gone. These instances by logic should get easier, but out of respect and authentic heart connection I am unsure if that is the case.

This past weekend Beloved fellow Scholar of the Orphan Wisdom school and friend of mine passed away; Anne Cressy of whom made me feel more at home in a strange place than I ever got to express to her; a respect and acceptance for an older Woman I have -unfortunately for me- not often felt. Along with her on the day previous my dearest Partner Ian and his brave and honourable family laid to rest their esteemed Grandfather Ian Mackenzie I. Guided by song, story and love -the way one should be- he slipped away in the home he had built – along with the clan he and his wife Agatha had cultivated first from across the Atlantic, and back to Canada again.

Death is the dance partner of whom has cradled and cavorted with us since our birth, the shadow of which is there even in our most alone times – the friend of whom will never abandon us despite our outright fear laden disdain for them. Such is their roll.

I want to believe that when those whom are closest to me – and even me – promenade comes to a halt I will be ready; that I will call forward my knowledge of ancestors and the unseen, that I will hold a space for them at the table of my days – and that I too will be seated at said table on the time of my departure. That I will live on in story; the stories of which I have become so fond of in my time – the stories I have come to realize we are compiled of. Stories are what make us Alive, even in Death.

But – I am scared, and a little angry.

These are so called natural feelings but how much if this natural affliction is instilled by our death phobic culture? How much poverty have we been subject to without even knowing it? There is a Rebel that rumbles inside of me and She teeters often on the fence of saving the world or abandoning its ridiculous ways all together – but I couldn’t do that, I love it far too much; no matter how much it hurts I have to keep dancing.

I have had a handful Friends and Family pass away in the past, and I have responded apathetically and passed by the chance to fully grieve them.
This is my shame, a regret that is laced with the wretched certainty of “too late”.
With them in mind and heart I vow to those of whom that are still tangible – still within my flesh’s reach- and to those of whom that are no longer able to feel the warmth my body conjures; that I will never quell that human instinct to mourn your loss out of cowardice surrounding the stigma of being “weak”, or being overtly obtrusive with my tears and what they are tied to.

Is is our birth right to be gifted the grief we’ve earned through out our time together – once passed these cries of heartache are the wind that pushes our sails to the next venture, and the breadcrumbs that bring us back to those we hold deeply in our hearts. This is our obligation and noble place as the living, to feed and guide our dead as they have fed will continue to guide us – as they wait readily -reminded of who we are by our remembering – to take our hand in to theirs whenever it is our time to join them.

Sometimes it seems too far brief of a time, or sometimes our bodies are suspended in space by machines keeping us here on borrowed time far longer than we should be. Never the less we all get what everyone else gets.
We all get a lifetime.

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