I try to imagine the Earth in all her glory, and with all her history . . . from way out in space. As I draw closer and closer it becomes apparent to me that there definitely is an ebb and flow, a growing and a dying, a rising and a falling. We know there were dinosaurs, and we know that they became extinct. But they left us fossils, and fossil fuels, and a lot to ponder about how they lived and what they looked like. We know there were Medieval knights and Lords and Ladies . . . and they are gone, but left us a legacy. We know we had great-great-great grandparents who are no longer living, but we are built from their DNA. And we look beyond our short lives to our children, and grandchildren, or to those whose lives we have touched gently or not . . . and we will be carried forward.

And I try to think of myself in the context of those who lived before me, and will live beyond me, and see that I am here for only so many days. I am like the oak leaf that opens green, transfers energy and nutrients to the tree, turns color and falls to the ground, and becomes food for the mushrooms at its roots. Without me the tree would not thrive, but there are many of "me." And we worked together to help that oak make acorns that season . . . and therefore we contributed to the continuation of life.


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What is most difficult for me is what we will leave behind. Right now we are cleaning out my mom's condo, as she has moved into an Alzheimer's care facility. I am the only sibling that can not get home to help, and I have no idea what has been sorted through. And it is just stuff. Am I supposed to want to keep her stuff? And is anyone else supposed to want to keep my stuff? It is those moments we shared while she was alive that are important . . . not the stuff. But how do we keep those moments alive?