Steve and I walked
down to Starbucks this morning. The
white blossoms of the plum tree stood out against a blue and pink striped
sky. Oh, my!! Later, the sun popped up. It doesn’t get better than that!
The motorcyclists
were gathered for the Sunday morning ride. This may be the first dry Sunday of the year. The
California Highway Patrol was there too.
The motorcyclists are resplendent in their leathers, and fancy helmets. There is a feel that aliens have landed, until
they speak. Each shiny, clean motorcycle
is “sweet.” The CHP is there, too, with
a car and a motorcycle. Everyone drinks coffee together, and then,
the game begins. The motorcycles take
off sedately. It could be a funeral
procession. No one is leaned over, yet! There is only a low hum of bees heading out
Highway One to the Station House Coffee in Point Reyes Station, or beyond to
the bakery in Tomales, or further north, and east, and some return the way they
came, on Highway One.
I would like to
talk about death. It seems some wonder
when I speak so often about death. I am
actually quite joyful as I am coming to an acceptance, or perhaps,
understanding of the cycle of life and death in which we all live. It is like the water cycle, constantly in
motion. Right now, it is so obvious to
me because I feel cells dying, observing, participating, hanging out, growing,
renewing. As I said to my cousin this
morning, I am like all the seasons at one time.
I am budding, growing, losing leaves, and dormant all at once. How great is that!! And we all are in seasonal change, both
long-term, and short, but I am blessed to be in an artificial push of spring,
summer, fall, and winter. I am in fast
motion, whirring through the seasons.
Wow!! I am a hot-house flower, whippling through
bloom after bloom. I am the sea,
resplendent with tides.
Someone asked me yesterday if my oncologist had prescribed
anti-depressants. I said no, that she feels a person would be
nuts not to feel depressed at times with this. I feel it, and
away it goes, swooshes out with a glide.
I am also feeling
my mother close, as I honor the anniversary of her death. I think of my son Chris, who lost this year
his dear friend Ken, then, my mother, then, a co-worker, and then, his beloved
first grade teacher. I did not have so
much death in my life at his age.
Sometimes, I feel like I lived like the Buddha before he went through
the palace gates. I lost my father when I was 19, but my life has been mainly blessed
with ease-filled grace. I did not have
much confrontation with death. This
experience has been interesting to navigate, as I realize we are a flowing
river with death holding up our sides. Could we appreciate each sunrise in the same
way if we were immortal? I am reminded
now of a poem by A. E. Housman.
Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now
Loveliest of trees, the
cherry now
Is hung with bloom along
the bough,
And stands above the
woodland ride
Wearing white for
Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore
years and ten,
Twenty will not come
again,
And take from seventy
years a score,
It only leaves me fifty
more.
And since to look at
things in bloom
Fifty springs are little
room,
About the woodlands I
will go
To see the cherry hung
with snow.
