I wrote about death last summer; the death of my father, the impact that had on me, and all the ways I’ve worked since then to accept the inevitability of this force of nature. After I published that essay, I thoroughly shuffled my tarot deck as I always do and pulled a new card for my next topic, only to be faced with the Death card once more. I could only laugh. I had dreaded pulling the Death card since I first started writing these essays, knowing I would feel compelled to translate into words the enormous effect my dad’s passing had on me, and here it was a second time in a row to greet me again. Death is a life-long lesson that we never finish learning.
Later on, I messaged a friend and told him I’ve been thinking a lot about dying (because I’m very dramatic), but I meant it in a metaphorical sense. I’d been contemplating the many forms death takes–the death of people we love, of our bodies and egos, of societal ways of life, of the universe (a near-immeasurable amount of time from now)–attempting and failing to write about what it means to me. As it always does, summer began to end: hazy, washed out days turning honey-gold and crisp. I thought about the cycle of nature, with fall and winter looming once more: the seasons of decay, death, and deep rest before rebirth. For the first time, I was looking forward to the slowing down and nesting that comes with fall, and the quiet contemplation and reflection of winter.
I’ve been feeling like I’m in transition between cycles or eras of my life: progress I’ve been working toward has caught momentum and I’ve been reflecting on all of the old selves and lives that led me here, and letting them go to make way for the new. I feel myself becoming a new iteration and even as I find that thrilling, I’m still nervous about change and what I might need to let go of in the transition. What do I risk leaving behind in my quest to build my best life? Clinging to the precipice between the old and new only keeps me small and scared; I have to step out into the void of the unknown and believe that I will find my footing on a new path forward. That’s what I’ve always done, even when I was unsure, and that resilience has helped me build enough trust in myself to know I will do it again.
I can see this fear of transformation after death in the world around me as well, not just within my own inner turmoil. Certain people can’t let go of the ways of life they’ve always known, of the antiquated systems that only ever benefitted the few at the top. They fear too much the loss of their petty privileges, of being treated the same as those they view as less than themselves, so they gnash their teeth and claw at the traditional ways they know best, regardless of others’ suffering. They hinder us all from experiencing the great revolution and relief that comes after collective ego death, after they crack open their dry, dusty hearts and accept that we are all connected in this world; that we all benefit far more when we overcome the divides sown between us to build new lives together, a new world from the ashes of the old where everyone is equal, safe, cared for.
Death is inevitable, it is necessary, and maybe most importantly, it is not the end. It nourishes the soil from which new life is sprung. It is an uncomfortable, painful process, but we have to let go of the old to make space for the new. The more we fight death by grasping on to old ways, habits, relationships, viewpoints - the more we prolong our own discomfort, stagnation, and misery. When we release our grip on the old, when we trust in ourselves, our own resilience, and open our arms to whatever transformations might come, we find ourselves with more opportunities and abundance than ever before. We open up to sharing abundance and opportunities with the people around us as they open themselves and share as well. As a collective, we can lift each other up and shift into the next, new era, whatever form that might take.