That moment when time comes together

I reflect on mortality pretty frequently; at least every week, and probably much more often than that. If you do it just a few times each year, you’ll hardly get used to it. I think it makes life sweeter, knowing that life’s so short.

I used to clearly separate this meditation from other things because I sometimes cried. Now I sometimes find myself simultaneously aware of it as I play with the cats, hang out with friends, talk to my parents, or spend time with my husband. Those moments feel oddly grace-ful, like I’m seeing one of our cats as a kitten, at the end of her life, and beyond, all super-imposed. It’s interesting to imagine who someone was before you knew them, and to trace their impact on your life by seeing their absence–or even non-existence, “It’s a Wonderful Life” sort of not-existed-at-all-ness.

When I feel this way, it’s easier to be appreciative and grateful for the gift that was given. It’s easier to feel safe, oddly enough, knowing that I can look on without clinging too much.

I’m not always like this, of course. I am often less thoughtful, more immediate. I think it would be interesting to be in that kind of moment more often, though. Perhaps writing about it like this will help me remember what it’s like, and how to do things with that perspective–even in those normal moments when time is separate and not all together.