Monday, November 24, 2014

Bus Stop

Sixty-eight reads the redline thermometer on my back porch at the moment. 68F and the trees are dripping, I couldn’t tell whether it’s light rain still, and didn’t want to know enough to walk out into the yard and get my socks wet. The thermostat in the family room is set on 67 but nothing is running because it’s 70 in here. Whether to go out on the back porch to let the fingers dance, or the front porch, or just sit here and sip coffee? I had a nice sleep, eight to two, six hours, decent for an old man, eh? some hours to go before meeting Robert for our walk. A nap later? 

A friend died last evening, her death makes me sad and wonder “what now?” for her and for all of us, self included, or is there then a now -- now being a facet of the human construct of Time -- and, again, what of all the awarenesses and memories that make each of us individuals, who and what we are and have been, does it go out with the lights? Is no more crying and pain and sorrow a passionless being or simply oblivion, or is there a difference, and does believing make so? Twenty-five years ago a parishioner friend died after choosing no more amputations for her diabetic limbs. Brilliant, agnostic, kind and gentle, scholar, professor of philosophy, she died content, peaceful and happy, believing life was over and there would be nothing more, no hereafter notwithstanding the church’s blessed assurances that she thought quaint and naive.

If mourning and crying and pain are no more, are there rejoicing and laughter and pleasure? Can there be light without darkness?

What happens when/where time crosses eternity, do we get off and wait for the bus? Not to be profound, I simply don’t know. I hope, I may believe, likely not the same as another believes, but I know not and know that I know not, and am in no hurry to be taught. Neither am I afraid of learning when the bell rings for that class. Or the bus stops for me.

May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.


W+

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