I have wrestled with feelings over the past few weeks that I would reckon as the aftermath. The aftermath of a loss of life and breath and time. A part of me is now in a long silence.
As I am reading through this biography of Winston Churchill, I learned that his dad died when Winston was 21. Winston went on to live to the ripe, old age of 91. It goes without saying that he had so much life ahead of himself when his dad passed. Not much longer after Winston's dad died his nanny also died; the person he supposedly was closest to in the world. 70 years later Winston died with a photo of her at his bedside. What is left?
What was left in Winston's case after his dad died were so many things that did not even yet exist. In my case as well, I hope there are children and adventures and deep conversations and simple relaxation and hard work and all that life would have in store— we can not only keep the good with none of the heartache.
This long silence, however long it may be, is this stretch of life in between tears and new, deep laughs. It is this in-between loss of life and birth of life. In essence, it is the period between the rising of the moon and the rising of the sun. As time passes, we grow and we experience and we begin to understand that the realities of life affect us all.
Fill your lungs with a full breath of air. Let the morning sun warm your face. Give a hug to a loved one. Get some mud on your boots. Live life to the utmost fullest.