Number Fifty Four

At the funeral, all eyes are on the coffin.  As if the one inside was the victim of misfortune.  As if he or she had been struck down by some random fate.  Something indifferent; violent.

Death isn't bad luck.  Because there is no difference between the living and the dead.  The one in the coffin is doing the same thing as the one grieving in the pew: loving; learning.

There is no difference between the living and the dead because the young have already been old, already taken a last breath, already watched planets die and galaxies collide.  In the end is the beginning.

Number Fifty Three

It is easy to see the darkness -- pain that cuts souls off from each other so they can feel only the "I," feel their aloneness. But the light, the slow movement of souls to point omega, is harder to recognize.  It is hidden by the illusion of detachment, our apparent separation from the whole. While the illusion is necessary for our lessons here, seeing that we are learning together growing together, is the first step toward spiritual liberation.

Number Fifty Two

In branches, on street corners, in familiar rooms are the ones watching over us.  They are visible and invisible.  They talk through the sounds of birds, they talk through falling water, through soft murmurs or an off-hand remark..

Yet we feel abandoned here, in the great silence of these dying, far-flung stars.  We feel alone in our bodies, in our death.  And we don't know our own angels, the ones who have loved us, the ones who surround us, both living and not.

We don't know our own angels.  We are deaf to their voice -- the wind in high granite, rain hitting the leaves, a sigh.  We can't see them when someone is waving, someone sleeps in a doorway, someone steps toward us for the embrace.

It's warmer and the birds arrive -- finally telling us everything.