Life is not "short."
I take no pleasure in hearing when lives are cut short (man, woman, teen or child, animals or Nature). As John Donne beautifully put it in No Man is an Island: "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved with mankind."
In view of our eternity – yes ours, let's own it – a life is indeed short. (I'm 60 and I want to stick around much longer, I'm half-way there). But life is not short. It is long, ever so long, and supercedes our short-sighted view of what length and strength and grace mean. How long or short life appears is entirely also relative, but how rich and enriched and enriching a life is, is often undervalued, understated, worst of all one's own.
Life, each and every life, is sacred, by God! it is sacred. Who does not respect that is dead already, but can be resurrected even now, this moment – it does happen.
Some would view what I am saying skeptically, because so many have deep personal and situational histories and issues, societal, social, or psychological issues, physical and mental health issues – and we are so self-conscious about our being here, cutting ourselves down, then cutting others down to compensate for that, cowering and dominating, both.
Some have depression to battle with – and I intimately do understand that, because I am involved with mankind – I'm a healthcare-giver long in the tooth, and a masseur to boot, including plenty of psychiatric.
But life matters, your life matters, and you matter. You, reading this, whoever you are (or by whomever this winds up), listen to me once: God loves you. Trust me on this, I know, and I have proof: because I love you. And I want you living.
That's it. Oh, and there's this bit I did compose back in 2005, passing a typically dour-faced, aged-before-her-time, obediently-dressed Turkish Muslim woman at my bus stop one evening:
What sort of religion is that then,
that lends you no joy
wherewith the world may see your smiling forehead,
your heart radiating love for Humankind?
What sort of faith teaches you no singing
instead of shouting or that tight-assed mistrust in your glance,
and contempt toward the "other"?
Sure, everybody has woes, who doesn't -
but honestly now: has no one ever told you
that God's name is compassionate and merciful?
. . . that He is indeed nearer to you than your jugular vein,
nearer indeed than your breath?
. . . or that in Him we live and move and have our Being?
. . . perhaps even once, that He dwells within you, actually as you?
And is that then no cause for joy?
And now, in almost closing, I offer this great in its own right:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2cgcx-GJTQ
Dylan Thomas reciting his villanelle 'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night'
Do not
go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(To which I take the liberty of adding here...)
And now you, my dear, contemplating suicide,
Curse the fierce confusion of your life, if you will.
But don't "go gentle into that good night," don't go at all!
Stay, stay and choose the worthy fight, and it's you
who must decide!
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(To which I take the liberty of adding here...)
And now you, my dear, contemplating suicide,
Curse the fierce confusion of your life, if you will.
But don't "go gentle into that good night," don't go at all!
Stay, stay and choose the worthy fight, and it's you
who must decide!
