Meditation On the Death of a Friend

Look up into the clear night sky and you will see a beautiful thing. 

Stars. 

Stars are born, grow for billions of years, live for billions of years, then collapse and die. And from their ashes, you and I are born. You and I, we are dead stars. And, you and I, we are more beautiful than stars, for we are not just things, we are persons. We are able to live life with joy that stars never have, we are able to burn with love no star's fire can cool, we are able to form molten memories that even a star's own sun-hot forge can never pour out.

But, in order for us, you and I, to be born, a star had to die. A beautiful thing had to die so that something, someone, even more beautiful could be born. 

And, as it is with stars, so it is with you and with me. Although you and I, and every person, has within us this unutterable beauty of joy and love and memory, we each must die so an even more beautiful being, an even better version of ourselves, can be born.

The star did not choose when it was born. It did not choose when it died. Nor do you and I. We do not choose when we are born, we do not choose when we die. Born from the ashes of a star, we simply live, carrying in our hands the life that is given to us. Each of us is born weak, but we grow strong, fiercely bright, giving light where and when we shine. 

My friend, you did not choose to leave your children. If you could have stayed, you would. You wanted for your children what all parents want for their children. And, just as none of us fully understand the death of a star, so none of us fully understand your death. But some things, we do understand.

So, my friend, for your children, this thought:  she wants you to live long, grow strong, and remember her.

And, my friend, for your children, this promise: the beauty that is to come is even greater than the beauty she gave to you.

And, my friend, for your children, this word: Live.