I seem to only truly love things that can die.
To be fair, I do not fear death. I never have. Death is but a bridge into a new journey. Lately though, I have noticed everything that is most precious to me is alive, and capable of my killing. Reliant on me, in a sense. I owe a responsibility to them.
Unfortunately, I have killed many of those things, and many of them being ivy, but I digress. It’s not about the living or the dying, but the loving, and loving that which has the capability to cease living.
Wherever a heart beats, I am there. If a thing is capable of breathing, I am more in love with it in that moment. Cherishing, as it is, the art of breathing with another breathing creature. The art of finding that breath in each walk of life, no matter who or what you find along the way.
That is why I love every season – because each season brings a form of life. The spring brings new babies in both plants and animals. The summer is abuzz with insects and a long-lived sun. Autumn says goodbye and births promises of a newness to life. In winter, born are dreams, which are just as alive as you and I.
Breath occurs in all stages of life, in each day, and each breath is beautiful beyond imagine.
Back to reality, where we are surrounded by life in each moment, at every turn, around each corner of our daily walks. I thrive off seeing life, pure life, just existing past my nose. My favorite things are green, or fur covered, or rippled with flesh and tendons – things that are purely, truly alive.
At the same time though, there are exceptions. Some of my favorite things are also often spiritual, the never ending eternal life sort of things. Indeed, the only things I love that cannot die are trapped inside a soul somewhere beneath the flesh, invisible to the naked eye, hiding.
And that is why I do not fear death anymore than I fear to love.
To love is to live. To die is a continuation of living.