Peonies and the raven
I wonder sometimes – how or if I might be remembered when I die. Goes something like: will I be remembered for the things I did? the “stuff” I leave behind? or maybe even, more righteously, the way I loved and how I made others feel?
Perhaps.
But the truth is, when it comes down to it, I just don’t think I will be remembered. At least, not years after I’m dead and gone. And no, this is not some sad sob about being forgotten, not at all. It is a recognition of “what’s the point?” and perhaps maybe a call... to do this life differently.
To live life here and now. To stay true to myself. To uncover who I am: truly, deeply. And then to fight the battle and to teach my children to do the same.
And here’s why: it is all there is.
The other day I met a woman, who was taking out her trash as I was coming down the street, motivating to kick up my feet from a slow walk to pathetic jog. Despite me putting my headphones in my ears as I approached her house, she looked up and asked in a calm, inquisitive voice: “what do your tattoos mean? Or are they simply art?”
I was rather caught by surprise. Life was feeling so damn hard, thick, heavy, uncomfortable. My eyes felt weary and wet. And here was this random older woman asking me about my tattoos? Hmmm. {ok, Universe.} “Um,” I paused then started rattling off an explanation, some sort of validation for the permanence of the ink on my body.
“They mean various things... these peonies are my mom’s favorite flowers. The raven is a connection the spiritual world, where my son is. And the desert, well, I go there to heal.”
“Ah...” she responded, closing the lid to the trash can and looking directly at me, peering into my eyes. “You know you are going to see him again, right? I mean, we are here such a short time: seventy, eighty, maybe ninety years... and then you will spend an eternity with him.”
I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. Tears, because she was right...we are here for a short time. I am on earth for such a short lifetime. This, one of the innumerable paradoxes of life. It feels like a long time, and then suddenly, it will end. And all the things I think matter, will be gone. They will die with me.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
“Yes,” I cleared my throat and wiped a tear.
“It’s just that this week has been really hard. Humans. We just, we just... don’t communicate well and its hard: this human experience.”
I was feeling an overwhelming sense of - what’s the point-ness. She nodded, acknowledging me with a kind look and added “well, when people hurt us, it is because they are hurt. When we are wronged by someone, it is because the wound inside them is big, or at least, bigger than ours, especially in that moment.”
I could feel my tears filling my heart, warming my face from the inside. “Are you a human?”
I could not believe I had to ask her, but this just felt so extraordinary. How did she know what I needed to hear? How could she see into my heart? “Or maybe you are an angel?”
She chuckled, “Gee, I hope not.”
I spent the next 40 minutes on Cheryl’s porch, chatting. For that day, a conversation with a random stranger, dropped in my path for a very particular reason, felt more important than miles on the shoes and before I left, she left me with words I am known to proclaim. She said “you know, all there is, is love.”
She paused and added “the rest is, just really, an illusion.”
And with that, I could see clearly: the Universe speaking loudly for me to pay attention. “Here are YOUR words. You have everything inside you.”
We all do. And that’s the thing of it, why it matters to find ourselves, and be that, be whoever that is. I get stuck in my humanness and the ways I feel hurt by others, misunderstood by those closest to me. In those moments, it feels not ok to be me. It is painful. And that pain is real. Except, as Cheryl reminded me, none of that is about me, actually. {Wow, ok Universe. Listening.}
Perhaps, then, my duty, the entirety of why I am on this earth, this battle of the human existence, is to just be me. And to let go of every other thing. Every other damn thing... and in so doing also allow others to be themselves, as much as that sometimes that also feels like a battle.
To let the wildflowers be the wildflowers. And the trees be the trees. And the rocks be the rocks. To understand that each plays a distinct and meaningful role on this earth.
Because we each have everything we need. And when we are gone, all we leave behind is love.
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Written by Courtney Sawyer
Artwork by Becca Williams
