Musings on life, and death

          Walking in Hearts Content woods today I slow to a saunter and exhale in the quiet shade of Toms Run Trail, thinking of life, and the pointlessness of so many things I once thought relentlessly important-sex, ambition. dreams-all the things that describe a normal human existence.  As death comes closer it seems that life is merely a recurring play recast with new characters, and nothing changes but for minor alterations of the plot. From that larger perspective we all step briefly onto a small stage and describe our roles in whatever terms we like, improvising with those around us but never able to affect major revisions to the unfolding drama. It is all vastly important to us in the moment but lost to time like all the rest of nature.
          The trail I am walking upon this hour is carpeted with last years leaves, now brown and decayed, while high above me is this summers growth fading to yellow and soon to fall. The unyielding force in being alive, that ebb and flow of life and death, is all around me, and I know I am a part of it despite my human tendency to ignore or separate myself. The decaying logs on the ground would appall me were they human bodies, yet I would become accustomed to them were they a common sight, and bones and flesh would seem no more remarkable than the moss and fungi and old leaves on the ground. We are all fodder for the earth more utterly than we are the kings of nations, and that is the reality we live and die upon. Perhaps pointless is not the correct title for this opera we each embrace, but repeating is certainly its theme if we are honest with ourselves. Only the young think that life is fresh and new, and that is a grand thing as it sustains them for many years.
           Being alive, we sometimes struggle against the inevitable decay, against the illness and sorrow and loss of everything we hold dear, yet it slips away from us all the same. We choose denial or avoidance or acceptance of those difficult truths, then choose love and laughter to make life a well rounded story regardless of the inevitable. We know there is always the curtain of death we cannot see beyond to tell us why we are here, yet that is never reason enough not to live well.
           As I gaze this hour into the hemlocks illuminated by the evening sun, into the soft light dispersed by gnats and threads of silk, I am made whole, and part of this world and the universe and my small stage within it. It is a stage that stretches far beyond me but everything I need is right here in front of me. I can see far enough to know that life is precious and the Earth a rare thing. It is Home and I am not separate from it. None of us are, regardless of the roles we choose. Always, from the perspective of the trees, the stage stretches beyond the roles humans play, with characters long dead and many to outlive us. I long ago decided that love and compassion are why we are here, and it does not matter who or what role we play so long as that is our mission.