A Good Day to Die

How do we ever fathom the timings of our birth or death?

None of us ever ask to be born, and certainly few ask to enter death.  But born we are, whether of God's or human will.  And from deep, incubate sleep we are thrust mewing against the light;  against an alien cold, so different from our nine month habitat of womb-coloured, acclimated warmth.  From that day forth and probably for the rest of our lives,  a query will ever float upon our lips:  Why am I born, and for where am I bound?

As we wait to discover those answers, we may live, exist, or subsist. Whatever our given lot, we strain in our mealy efforts against an interminable fleshly strife.  And it just may be, when we've finally got the hang - Death comes, unannounced, to rob our laughable feathered nests:  our imperfect loves, our short lived joys, our ill-fitting meanings and self-fulfilling purposes.   So in silent, ignominious rage we must relinquish our precious, insufficient days.

But those (who are so inclined) to accept an alternate view, we're beholden to believe that our unsolicited birth is value added.  This life of counterfeit days, is but a shadow of itself, even with its momentary griefs, and its fleetly passing glories.  For there lies beyond our known horizons, an altogether surpassing existence.  So the azure of these March-born skies, the burst of unexpected sun, the fragrant waft of Springtime flowers, or tickle of tender new grass underfoot - is but underachieving, parallel universe to a hardier, altogether superlative reality.  There, it's guaranteed, we will know a thousand springs, where the blooms will never fall, and the sweetness in the air will giddy senses beyond expectation.

So Death come pick your fight:  assault us in rot and decimation till we are but bloated effigies of ourselves, a mockery of who we were as we were made and born and grown and cherished.  For if we are those (who are so inclined) to invest in a different order - we will kiss goodbye today's slumbering rosebuds in this shadow world's blighted Spring. Then we will deftly turn on our heels, laugh with faithful abandon to head towards a greater Light.  There we will become truly ourselves as we arrive: unfaded, unwilting blossoms in an eternal garden of endless delights.

                                                                    (For a beloved friend, who is completing her given journey.)