I paused on the path in the park, stock-still, listening and looking for birds betwixt and between the boughs and billowing leaves overhead as others strolled, strode, sauntered, and cycled by.
I was caught off-guard in that moment, mesmerized by the magnificent and miraculously munificent display of majesty—a matinée made for me?—when I mused to myself:
Ah, an elegant death.
Maybe what I meant, as the leaves languidly fell in larger and larger numbers around me, was an elegant dying.
I imagined the trees, aware of their leaves' senescence, slowly sloughing them off in an ancient autumnal "Rite of Shedding," free from shame or any sour, sullen sadness. Perhaps with a pinch of pride.
And then I thought, "Who the fuck wants to die, proudly or otherwise?"
Well.
Alas, I know that some do; I dare not judge. I might, however, quiver with wonder. I have indeed learned that there can be no living without dying. We who live and die are all sacred, hallowed by our even being to begin with. Are we not holy?
I marvel that I can yet be moved to this quintessential asking of questions.
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