Winter

 Winter

Cemeteries full of white chrysanthemums.

Death dressed in white.

The death and the living together for a moment in one

place. 

They seek each other, they think of each other,

unable to reach each other. 

There is, somewhere, a frightening separation, a boundless helplessness.

Suddenly I think of my own death, and I become a little

Frightened. The fear of my death touches the joy of life.

Death is the most powerful spell breaker. It darkens all

feelings of light-heartedness, gnaws at every certainty,

and blocks my ability to breathe in the joy of my

existence.

Nobody knows how to give advice about death.

Neither does science.

People are silent, people forget. 

The traffic rushes on

again as soon as the funeral procession has passed.

But I must not banish all my thoughts of death from my

consciousness. 

That is the politics of an ostrich. 

In the end everything leads to this one basic question, “Is

death the end or isn’t it?” 

If death is the end, my death

takes on the character of a frightening amputation. 

If it is not the end, my death takes on an amazing,

awakening, new dimension. 

A restful meeting with death, that critical moment in my life which I must go

through quite alone, places me either before the

fullness of all things, or before complete nothingness;

either before the meaning, or the complete

meaninglessness of my existence; either before God,

or the infinite void.

The secret of life and death is very near to the secret of

God. Just as my own unique, original ‘I’ does not find

a proper explanation in physic, chemistry or biology,

so I find no solution to the meaning of God by studying

natural sciences.

I hold in my hand just one single thing. It is hope. 

A hope that gives me joy in my life until my last breath.