“I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful halt, ‘won’t go,’ or, even worse, explodes in some innocent person’s face.”
― Journal of a Solitude
Every morning I light a candle in front of three pictures of my late grandparents, and Brian and Aneta, my wife’s parents.
It’s my prayer to them and all those people no longer here.
But it goes much deeper (of course) than a candle; and it touches my very soul. I miss so much of them — the conversation, breaking bread, rich, warm hugs and the laughs.
Of course, they’re still here — in my heart and spiritual connection with the world. Always.
I don’t think about my death but I wonder what memories my family and friends will hold of me in their hearts? Sure, I’ve screwed up plenty but I’d like to think they might remember that I cared.
This week I’ve been toying with a series of vows. As yet, I’ve not committed anything to paper but what’s circling around is that a vow is as deep as it gets, unlike a promise which (these days) seems to carry little weight. I don’t want to say too much but I do know, much like a vow of silence, that once I commit to something there’s no turning back. Of course, some things don’t need a vow — they’re implicit in the relationship.
What am I saying?
One day we won’t be here. And it’s worth considering how you’ll be held in spirit by those people left behind.