death

Fall of autumn leaves leaves a lasting impression

We are like leaves of a tree. We break away from the tree only to find a home somewhere else

📸 taken by the author somewhere in switzerland

i went to a cemetery yesterday.

noticed the autumn closely and fall of leaves from the trees where i went to pay tributes to a passing soul.

flowers on someone's deathbed — I hope you are finally gone to a place where you belong

i guess it is right to say that a person passed away. or a soul passed on its way from one form to another.

just like these leaves, the separation from the tree could feel like the end or death. but in fact, it is just a passing away.

these same leaves will become compost, or ash if burned. these same leaves will result into something else and serve nature’s plan.

similarly, i should not be afraid of dying.

why?

because in reality, it is passing away into something or someone else (ashes or compost or sea or tree or insect or human). in the end, we still remain as being.

it is just a cycle. an endless cycle.

until we come out of the loop.

(i wonder what natural phenomenon is equivalent to the awakened being who has come out of the cycle of birth and death)

Disheartening, yes it is

yes, it is disheartening to lose a loved one. yes, it brings tears of blood.

only if we had more time to grow together. only if we had more time to cherish together.

but, take solace in the fact that (soul of) your loved one just transformed and passed away into some other form.

(i wonder how a tree would feel when a leaf disconnects from it)

To give some tough love

i don’t think we mourn as much the fact that our loved one passed away as the fact that we are left alone now.

i don’t think an 80-something woman will be saddened to tears on the passing away of his 90-something man.

i guess, she will graciously and gratefully tell the Lord to let the soul of her better half rest in peace wherever he is.

(i wonder how Lord would feel on the passing away of a man or a woman)

A story to drive the point home

An old groundskeeper rakes leaves at the cemetery every autumn. He doesn’t rush; he listens.

A boy visiting his grandfather’s grave asks, “Doesn’t it make you sad, seeing all these leaves fall?”

The groundskeeper smiles. “I used to think falling meant ending,” he says, gathering a brittle maple leaf into his palm. “Then I noticed the soil getting richer.”

He points to a sapling near the stones. “Last year’s fall feeds this year’s rise. The leaf doesn’t argue with the wind. It lets go and becomes what it must.”

The boy looks down. “And people?”

“Same lesson,” the groundskeeper says. “We don’t stop—we change address.”

He pats the soil. “The work of love isn’t to hold on forever. It’s to notice the becoming. To say thank you at the right time. To keep tending the ground.”

They stand quiet. A breeze lifts another leaf.

It doesn’t fall; it arrives.