Where do the dead go? I know that they live on in our hearts and minds. They are a part of us, what we were and what we might become. The dead live on within me. They are like a tether that reminds me from whence I came. Consciences of simpler times. Yet they are subject to revision and mis-remembering, whether willful or an act of survival.
Is there truth and authenticity in the creation of these growing fictions? The truth of these memories lies in the reflection of the authentic self in the mirror of our mind. Not always pretty. Subject to distortion and misperception. Ever present.
The quality of one’s life is in the quality of the questions they ask.
How in the world…?
What in the hell…?
Who said…?
When will I ever…?
Why me?
Why not me?
When, if not now?
Who, if not me?
How can I…?
What do I…?
These questions and so many others form the threads of our life. The answers provide the technique that inform the stitches to bring the threads together. A tapestry of vibrant colors that rival the shining sun or a brooding cloak that is a twin harbinger of a coming storm? A complete, woven vision that can encompass and sustain the world or a threadbare rag that yields to the weight of air and mist? Those pesky questions again. Asking, probing, waiting insistently for an answer. Not THE answer, but an answer. What we can give now. What resonates with our soul and leads us on that pilgrimage to our highest self. Self-actualization. Self-esteem. Self-love.
At times it is more comforting to shy away from the questions and to whisper the answer into a pine box in the gray wastelands. But once given life, that answer will fight to be heard. To take flight and spread its truth in the skies. Will we be blind to it or will we embrace that answer from then and reconcile it with now? Now, that’s the question.
