I visited my daughter's grave today.
Yesterday was her birthday—she would have turned 34 years of age. Nobody else was around as I stood on the grass
where she is buried. A cold winter wind made me pull my coat tight to
my chest and I stood briefly, praying for her soul and remembering
the day she was born. I was with my first wife at home, with a nurse
and doctor when Naomi was delivered around 11 AM. I never would have thought
that she would die in 1999, before reaching twenty.
A few days ago, I was in California,
visiting with my parents who are close to death. This all makes me
think of my own dying. I do not know when it will be, but death is
certain for every created thing. As I think of creation, I realize it
is always renewing itself—almost like a wave that arrives at a
shore and at last culminates in a surge upon land and then disappears. The disappearance is illusion, for the ocean remains and gathers
itself together continually to transform and surge again, over and
over.
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