Living and dying

Every year I get an amaryllis from my daughter; every year it blooms, always glorious, sometimes beautiful beyond my words. That was the way it was this year. It started with a large, white bloom, quite spectacular. And then, when I thought the display was over, two new shoots emerged, ultimately bearing four magnificent flowers. The plant had been on the way to the basement but I brought it back to its place on my table. I’ve been watching it ever since, as those shoots grew and the blossoms formed and opened and faded, all with grace.

We celebrate the vibrant energy of young growing things and well we should. At the same time, I treasure the decline. There is unspeakable beauty in the textures and folds of flowers past their prime. I sense a quiet but relentless yearning to keep going, keep growing even though the outcome is foreordained. Yet it is as quiet as it is relentless - not a competition, just a recognition that, in this season, this is what life - and death - look like.

Can it be so for we humans?

May we live in safety; may we have happiness; may we have health; may we be fully at ease.