Dead Things

Death is all over the ground. How beautiful, how nourishing. There is a richness to the layers of fallen things that coat the soil, making their way back to the roots underground. Queen bee and luna moth nestle into their winter home among the leaves. Luna in her cocoon becomes goo on her way toward lime-green springtime beauty. We are slowing down.

The land has been catching my attention all week at work, where bright yellow is both above and below. Now, though, I am writing this from home, from inside of four white walls and surrounded by crafted things that will not die until I am long gone. Somehow, the previous peace of being in the presence of death is absent here among eternal things.

Denim takes a year to decompose. A book can take up to 100 years. My glass candle jars will sit around for 4,000 years. The plastic of my Nintendo Switch, my alarm clock (which I never use), and my lotion tub will never fully decompose. Instead, they will become perpetually smaller as molecules break down in the sun, their bonds incomprehensible to the microorganisms that move the rest of the world through death and back to life again.

Outside, we are held. Inside, we are holding. This is an oversimplification, but it speaks to me. This earth keeps all of life inside her web of reciprocity, with its safe, tight weave. Offering and receiving, holding and being held. Trees remind us that release is natural and never the end; spring will come with its abundance, returning the gift of leaves and fruit that were given away throughout the year. Winter’s freezes even aid in preparing for the next season’s generosity. To hold on tightly, as though nothing should pass away, is to fear that more life will not fill in the emptied spaces. Fall reminds us not to hold on too tightly, not to fear release too gravely. Endings are nourishing, are gifts we give and receive, are just seasons in cycles. May we pay attention to the land enough to soak this truth into our bodies, our minds, our spirits.

I hope we spend time outside today. We need it if we are to return to ourselves and one another, if we are to live wholeheartedly and full of hope.

Whatever may be ending for you, there is possibility too. Grief and newness — not cancelling each other out, but accompanying us together as we journey through seasons and cycles, roots growing deep and intertwined with one another with each passing day.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Life continues, carrying you with her.