The Breath of Death

The Breath of Death. It is strange how these two words, when paired together, rhyme so well. For most of us, when we see these two words standing next to each other, we feel their defiance towards one another. One gives and one takes. But, just as light & shadow, the yin & the yang, the good & the bad, I have come to see (after 46 years of reflective living) how they can survive to give purpose to one another. Without breath there is death, and without death, well, how can you fully appreciate the presence of breath? What I mean by this, is how can you fully give thanks to the breath without knowing the absence of it? Metaphorically, the breath can stand for moments, for attempts, for platitudes, for steps, or as in this case, blog posts. I inhale all what life has to offer, but how can I exhale what matters most? How can my experiences contain a rhythm like that of breath, so that when I am forced to confront my deepest demons, which try to take away these experiences, I have the faculties to survive?

I think when I wrote this title, the Breath of Death, I was trying to articulate a sense of consumption my heart has been in lately. I am breathing in the despair of lost loves, lost spouses, and, one of the most devastating, lost mothers to young children. We all hate to stand on this edge, but I cannot deny that there is a part of me that is so grateful to be open to the soulful endurance-test that grief offers. Like a sponge, the heart is filled with the stories, the tears, and the hugs of those who are sharing in the grieving process, and then- when you least expect it- it spontaneously squeezes itself out upon those who are left open to witness. Sometimes it is a word, or a smell, or a seemingly innocuous item which releases this torrent, but I can only say from personal experience, that grief needs to feel this release to be, once again, open to the fulfillment life offers.

When my father died, I watched. I watched him take his last breath, I watched my siblings process his death, and I watched My Self go deeper into who he was. I wafted through his clothes, his drawers, his cabinets, and I observed artifacts of the man that he never dared to be put on display. All of his stuff was left behind, and one could assume he lived a good life, but I was left only to remember him for the pure look of fear he had in his eyes on the day he took his last breath. Death may have denied him the opportunity to breathe, but it was his breath of alcohol addiction that pushed his soul way beyond a life worth living. All his leftover stuff could never reveal that story-- only I can. But like an overstuffed bag of objects never finding its way to the Goodwill Store, it rots within me still to this day.

In the end I know the breath is the thread that holds us to this state of consciousness, and yet I find myself not acknowledging it's complete power as I move through my days. Then Death slaps me in the face and tells me to take a closer look. I commend others for their religious zealousness on the meaning of life, but I have too many questions to consider before packaging it up in one gospel, one mantra, one belief. So, while the sanctity of the Breath appeals to my heart, and I will also listen to Death and connect to the value of it's teaching.