I step outside and the hovering shadow that has kept me from sleep all night is manifest in the body of a pigeon.
It seems to have come upon her quickly, her last meal burst forth and scattered on the pavement. I wonder if she felt satisfied, full and happy in the last hours of her life.
The Buddhists tell us that the way to a happy life is to make peace with death. For to live, is to die, and knowing that, accepting it, allows us to appreciate this brief and beautiful moment fully.
But we still pretend we will live forever, perhaps because it is so easy to die. And so hard to truly live.
Our hearts break, over and over and over again. We lose. We err. We disappoint, and are disappointed. We fight and then, too often, too easily, we give up.
I feel the street under my feet as I stand at the corner. At this crossroad, and most on my path, it does not really matter which way I go, as long as I keep to the general direction, and keep moving.
The only difference is in the experience, and the interpretation is even more than that.
Today, south; yesterday, east. Tomorrow may never come.
As I walk along the concrete and feel the wind on my face, alive, and as much a part of this world as I can be. Breathing it, feeling it, walking it, loving it in all its terrible glory.
Near the tracks, another reminder: a pile of raw meat and bones discarded on the street, and just beyond a flowering, fragrant tree.
The air fills my body, and I breathe.
#mymorningwalk
What did you see?
