As young as I can remember,
I have always wondered at what point
are we dying and at what point are we living?
At what point are we living and at what point are we dying?
I recently came across a poem by a favorite poet (and professor) of mine
and thought it was perfect for this week's issue.
While this spring we're exploring different facets of love,
some parts of love are better described in an ethereal fashion.
One suggestion I have for this week's entry,
try to connect the seemingly bits and parts
into a cohesive meditative experience.
(In other words, if your thumb is usually quite active,
perhaps it is good to let it rest as well.)
Below the poem is a three-piece photo essay
taken from a recent hike the Gent and I did
on Mt. Diablo, a peak in the East Bay.
(To say the scenery was incredible is an understatement.)
a poem in ragged edges
in the birthing is the aging.
in the living a slow diminishing.
in the growing so seldom knowing.
in the gaining always losing.
in the choices hardly choosing.
in the goodbyes a little dying.
but in the leaving awaits a returning.
in the releasing a finding.
in the grieving lies a relieving.
in the denying a blessed receiving.
in the emptiness a holding.
in the mystery an unfolding.