Dust

Going through a bunch of drawers in an effort to clean out and let go of outdated or irrelevant stuff, I came across a good measure of dust. This kind of dust is unpleasant and it always feels good to wash it out, and away. It got me to thinking about a different kind of dust, of a more healing type. There is a dust that softens pain, loss by patiently reminding us that time has passed, that wounds heal, and that out of the loss, new life and chances can be born. I found a little dried flower, and a little towel, whose frail threads were letting in light as I held it up. It seemed an act of mercy, reminding me that time does not stand still, no matter how much we would like it to sometimes. To feel the precious little dried flower turn to a fragrant dust in my fingers, and to see the sentiments attached to the piece of fabric turn to shredded pieces, almost like snowflakes of a memory past, made me sigh with relief at the understanding that a time comes when even grief becomes irrelevant and we must nod acceptance to new opportunities and carry the memories in our hearts, not in in our faded drawers. Nature is merciful in its implacable laws of making sure the organic process of decay takes its due course. It feels harsh and even merciless when a wound of a loss is fresh, but over time you realize that implacability is an act of love. Nature renews itself endlessly, and follows a logic that may offend our sensibilities emotionally, but that cyclical rhythm is a way to guarantee that life continues to thrive, to go forward, to stay relevant, strong, fresh. Our bafflement with the irreversible passage of time and the ravages it brings, and the death it brings inevitably of all our lives, makes us want to hang on, through pictures, paintings, sculptures of the people and beings that mean the world to us. But that is an illusion. People who die don't come back. Wherever they are, it is not with us anymore. Accepting that is easier when we see that time passes, like a cherished flower a loved one gave us that finally turns to dust in our hands. I am grateful for that process, as I clean out drawers and find pictures of people I lost who look so alive in the photos I am holding. The precious little flower especially, given so long ago, is a reminder that time has irrevocably changed, and that I will never again hold a fresh flower picked by the person I loved and who died. Acceptance is a difficult thing, when it comes to loss, but nature's wisdom in the matter is, to me, a blessing.