We meet up with our mortality every day since birth,
some moments more concrete than others. And much like the squirrel with the road, or the child with the hot wood stove, there are warnings at times, of loud noise, swishing cars, or approaching heat. While at other times, no warning fits in between this present moment, and the one that will be our last.
Still, what we learn, no matter our circumstance, no matter our close calls, is that counting days, or leaning upon the intellectual concept of our last days, is no help whatsoever. In fact, it harms us with its untenable, fear-invoking ways.
We begin to viscerally come to the weighty path of knowing, deep inside of us, that simply this moment, this one here, is key.
And all that we need, day after day, to relish what time we have. To develop awareness of the corporeal bookends of birth and death.
To realize that striving to grasp it all is a useless venture, because after all, it is not something mere intellect grasps, but rather something we come to know, and deeply, with our entirety.
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