It is July, summer, again. Fruit is ripening on the vines, the northern hemisphere is warm again, hot. Another of us has been put into the earth after years of standing upon it and eating from it. It would seem right to say that the body of those who have just passed away, is now put back into the earth, that body to continue to be a part of the great circle of life and to feed the soil and the plants and the living things that will in turn feed others. And in this way we are none of us ever gone or ended. That would be good to say. That would seem right to me, reasonable. But what we do in this society is bury our dead in vaults of metal and cement, keeping our bodies from the earth, saving them, for what I know not. It seems absurd to me. It seems confused to me. It seems unnatural to me.
There seems to be a stability in the circular and ever changing that allows for healthy life. One elder dies and a child is born. The seasons roll one into the next and back again. The sun rises and lights the day, only to give way to the night and the dark and then back to day. A forest grows, burns and then is reborn.
Cycles, circles, reoccurring patterns are absolute. They are the path that cannot be avoided. Even when a straight line seems obvious, it can still be a small part of the arc of a great circle.
Our lives and our actions all return from whence they came and are ever connected to what has been, and what will be.
Looking around at what is not of human origin I see evidence of seasons, of circles. I see it in the rain, the rivers, the sea, and the rain. I see a moment of it while standing at the foot of a 1000 year old giant sequoia. I taste it in this year's wineberries that I eat for breakfast, sweet with sunlight and cool with morning dew. I recognize it as I find my eyes not able to read the fine print I once could.
Looking around at what is of human origin I see evidence of denial and defiance and fear of those cycles. A constant struggle for that which is consistent, though I see little results from this struggle. I see little acceptance of that which is bigger than the individual.
None of us begin and end, but rather continue on in our circular patterns, just as all things do, changing day to day, year to year, lifetime to lifetime. I know nothing of reincarnation, nor do I need to. The love that I felt from my grandmother, the kindness and caring that all of her relations knew is carried on in each of us and it is ours to share with others and in this way she is never really ended. Her children live on, and her love lives on. Her body being in a vault in the ground, may not immediately feed the worms and the soil and the plants above and the rest of the living world, but, in earth time, eventually will be reabsorbed and put back in the cycle of life, some how, I am sure. This is just the way the world works.
The circular tortillas my Nana used to make for me, round discs of flour, lard, salt and love, I ate and consumed the love that she put into them. It is a part of me and mine to put into my life and to pass on to those I love. And so it goes.
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