On 'My' and Other Thoughts

In prehistoric times dragonflies had a wing-span of over two feet, which has evolved today to two inches.  Adults live a brief, carnivorous life, favoring mosquitos (go dragonflies!)

At the end of their little lives they pass unnoticed, biodegrade, and return from whence they came.

The Dead Dragonfly Float-6/29/12

This thought renewed itself while paddling the river:  Everyone I know is going to die. I am going to die.

Of course it's universal. Everyone knows this. Everyone you know is going to die. Including you.

We know this, but we don't comprehend it. Comprehension is in the mind, and the surface mind wants to believe otherwise. It doesn't know truth.  It finds it inconvenient. It wants us to live pretending we won't ever non-live.

My is such a possessive word.  Possession is a mind-made thing.  People die daily.  Minute-ly.  Second-ly.  Now.  Right now someone died. 

But until they are referred to with the little word 'my' before their label, their death is not significant to people who don't refer to them starting with 'my.'  

A friend of my sisters' died this week.  Today was his funeral.  

She said on the phone, "My friend Jim died this week."  

Jim was many people's friend; one person's husband; one sons father.  To them, he was 'my friend.' 'my husband.' 'my father.' 

In the lovely book The Little Prince, the tiny traveler didn't appreciate his rose until he and the fox tamed one another.  Only then did he appreciate the uniqueness in all the world, of his rose. It was in honoring our communion with one another that true friendship prospers.

The Hindi word for 'friend' is rooted in the phrase:  "Who is your friend? The one who tells you the truth." 

A dear friend of mine died in February. My friend.  I brought soup to his house last winter. The next time I saw him he returned the container. I asked how was it.  He said it was bland.

"No matter how much spices we added it didn't improve it." 

I laughed, tickled at his honesty. 

It was just his friend-ness shining through. He had to tell the truth. He was my friend.

I love and miss him.

Real friends, ones who tell the truth, are rare.