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It happened so subtly—“I’m going home! I’m going home!”—so prompted my spirit emerging from psychic depths, cuing me toward the next diminishment. Never could I have produced such self-talk; its simplicity says it all, so quiet, so low key.

True, for some time increasing weakness, exhaustion, shortness of breath, and muscle loss has further depleted my energy, not without my notice and some angst. Such symptoms correspond to my terminal disease, interstitial lung disease with rheumatoid arthritis. Still the daily dose of Dexamethasone has kept me somewhat functional.

But I’m in a different space, one filled with lightness, color, hope, evidence of more release from the bondage of this existence. No matter that my symptoms will only cease with the death in my body—My attitude, for today, for which I offer thanks to God. Not that there won’t be upheavals before my final breath. Usually there are, so I’m told.

Still, “I’m going home!” That’s all that matters.

 

Outside my study window the leaves of the seasoned lilac appear mottled, bug-gnawed, its spring symmetry of glossy leaves torn asunder. Change is underway. There’s no stopping it, no emergency measures to prolong what had offered greening to spiking branches tipped by heady purple blossoms. September feels the first pinch of grief.

 

 

Yet, look closely—buds crown tips of branches, anticipating new greening but not before months of dormancy.

What can be said of the Master Gardiner’s empowering all life forms with internal growth cycles—even ourselves, seeded with burgeoning life to be shared in dark times and light? Such fruition plummets us, even now, into the mystery of co-creation.

We are grateful.

 

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