That balance of light and dark, that season that hastens preparation, on that day the drummer and his indigenous chant, complemented by bell ringing, sound to the heaven containing universe, as we each stand facing on the perimeter of the medicine wheel, participating in the ascension to those heavens where all essence returns to be mixed eternally with those who have gone before, anticipating those who follow, as the sun sets in a distant clear sky.
Death as an industry, optimized to be self sustaining, innovation squelched to ensure profit, not life, too often shift workers lacking monastic attitudes of service to anyone but themselves.
Whose life matters but your own, and with age, that glint in the eye, that sparkle fades, eventually we give in to the invading army of bacteria, feeding on their host, as caterpillar eat all the forest, selfishly.
But in my seventy two years, I did this… I did that…, earned a few bonus years, came to appreciate my parents sacrifices for my life, but eventually its “time to die,” and my control of that day, that hour, that minute is limited—
One day we will time out before we die for man will invent anti-death, extend life for a time, and for a cost, feeding the industry of death.
Summer heat prompting late night Monday ride, a short quiet pedal with a failed music mission. Returning to a sitting and silhouetted Doodle at a distance, under the amber mercury lighting, mousing no doubt, his ear titled towards a commotion that is stirred by my quiet entry, another cat, New New, ambles safely on the perimeter of the house. My pause evidenced another silhouette, that of a fox, Ruthie-sized, one of two pestering these cat’s owners who worry its apetite might include a smaller cat, although there are still bunnies, there are still squirrel, and our mousers continue a consistent crunchy diet. New nears foxy’s size, yet peanut is another story, said the eagle at the cabin on Ada…
