WHEN OLD WE GROW, THIS WE KNOW...
WE GO SLOW our movie show of here and now somehow flies by like birds in the sky swiftly pass and disappear and, like the morning dawn, soon are gone and the noontime sun carries on till dusk holds sway and signals the end of another day.
This is the story of life and death and a trillion ins and outs of breath and gasps of hesitation in-between the opening and closing scene. It's the anticipation and expectation of creation and ultimate excavation to the hole in the ground where all are bound to be put to rest when silence fills the emptied breast.
It all begins when there are fewer outs than ins, no replacements of worn out skins, no more starts of failing hearts, no more pimpled complexion and imperfection and infection of blood-fed parts. No more aches and pains and rattled brains, no more constipation and indication of cancerous tumors and rumors of other complications down the road. The load of life is lifted and we are gifted with blessed death.
But in between these two extremes there seems a million decisions must be made: should we add more sweetener to our lemonade, march in life's passing parade or just review the doers who go along for the ride while we watch from the side, undecided what to decide.
When we're young the jobs we take, the lucky break we let escape, the shape we let our body become, the brilliant mind turned numb and dumb, we give in to habits difficult to overcome, sink into a spiritual slum and walk the streets alone and on our own.
Should we set the stage for declining age, preserve our verve for an unanticipated curve in life's demands or fate's commands, be set to cope or grope with hope lost or found, to deal with danger going around? So much more of concern. So little do we ever learn.
This has been an incomplete commentary, but one that affords many possibilities not to be ignored. Will death provide the final word?
This is the story of life and death and a trillion ins and outs of breath and gasps of hesitation in-between the opening and closing scene. It's the anticipation and expectation of creation and ultimate excavation to the hole in the ground where all are bound to be put to rest when silence fills the emptied breast.
It all begins when there are fewer outs than ins, no replacements of worn out skins, no more starts of failing hearts, no more pimpled complexion and imperfection and infection of blood-fed parts. No more aches and pains and rattled brains, no more constipation and indication of cancerous tumors and rumors of other complications down the road. The load of life is lifted and we are gifted with blessed death.
But in between these two extremes there seems a million decisions must be made: should we add more sweetener to our lemonade, march in life's passing parade or just review the doers who go along for the ride while we watch from the side, undecided what to decide.
When we're young the jobs we take, the lucky break we let escape, the shape we let our body become, the brilliant mind turned numb and dumb, we give in to habits difficult to overcome, sink into a spiritual slum and walk the streets alone and on our own.
Should we set the stage for declining age, preserve our verve for an unanticipated curve in life's demands or fate's commands, be set to cope or grope with hope lost or found, to deal with danger going around? So much more of concern. So little do we ever learn.
This has been an incomplete commentary, but one that affords many possibilities not to be ignored. Will death provide the final word?
posted by Ed Weiland at 10:37 AM
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