Contemplating Life and Death 3/3

Part 1

Part 2

 

Life clings on in the most unlikely of places. Like this moss on a rock, peppered with snow. What nourishes it?

The air is cold, I can see my breath. Life seems to have fled to the deepest recesses amidst the onset of winter. Yet some of it is more conspicuous, like this moss on a tomb stone. Bright and lively it seems to shout: "I will persevere during these hard and unforgiving times", "I have learned to cope with this stressful situation and even flower within it".

As I look more closely at this little miracle I begin to see all the details, the wonderful colors, its resilience. This plant has somehow found a way to live here; which has probably started out with no more than a speck of nourishment. Yet it grew roots and spread out, has found a way to live.

What a miracle.

And even in winter when the snow starts to fall and the temperatures fall well below zero, it has found a way to cope with this situation; has even learned to thrive here.

Sometimes, we are stuck in life. We think about death and all of its gloom. Yet we fail to realize that life and death are not something really separate from each other. At these times we fail to see the miracle of life and the gift it means to be able to live in this world.

Death is the ending of the me, the "I". Without it we are no more. It is a thought that gives us solace, but also instills a primal fear in us. For when I do not exist anymore, what will then be?

Somehow the moss is even slightly warm when I touch it. Retaining the ever so slight warmth from the faint and distant sun. Perhaps it is all that this plant really needs to grow. Perhaps it is enough for it to be rooted in these ephemeral windows of opportunity.

The tomb stone itself must be at least over a century old. I wonder if it has taken this long for the moss to take a hold here. Steadily, bit by bit, growing, evolving.

Looking ever more closely on the patterns intricately weaved in this complex organism I lose myself into this microcosm. My thoughts seem to stop; light and sensation is all that seems to remain.

Where is the "I" amidst all of this?

 

 

Actually, it might have ceased to be.