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
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.