“Everything I have ever let go of has claw marks in it.” -David Foster Wallace.
I walked outside of a job site the other day and it had just rained. I breathed in as much of that petrichor and grass smell as my lungs could hold, getting dizzy, then exhaled with a bit of impatience just so I could inhale again. I did this for a while. And I found it humorous how grand the metaphor.
Death is scary, life is preferable, for the majority of the population. It is also preferable for the majority of the population to live in a perpetual inhale, unwilling to exhale.
Yet me must. We must make space.
But OH MY, ‘emptiness’ has been baked into our minds as something to fear. ‘Nothingness’ has been written all the way to the antagonist. And death, my sweet death, the joker, the juror, the genie, has been painted black. Yet from its mouth the flowers grow.
For everything must go somewhere right? And what a better place than in ‘nothingness’
In fact, I couldn’t imagine a more pure display of trust and love than being nothing. Arms open to ‘everything’ saying I am yours.
Makes it a bit easier to let something go no? Makes the black a bit easier too. Knowing you are standing inside the bowl that holds the light.