Headline topics the last few weeks have given me reason to pause.  Woman dies from injuries sustained in avalanche that destroyed her home.  Beloved young reporter succumbs to aggressive breast cancer.  Motorist shoots self in head after fender bender.  What's up?  Sudden death, progressive dying, loss of faith in life.  They all point to the fine line that separates the beating heart from a silent one.

As I sit in front of a fire two weeks after the blizzard warning was issued, I remember the artist and her husband the retired professor safe and cozy in their own home early on a Friday evening.  An inexplicable roar outside signaled the arrival of snow traveling at 120 miles per hour.  The next day, front-page photos displayed their lovely remodeled home split open like an over-ripe melon, spilling its contents into bitter cold.  Helpful strangers searched the rubble for personal treasures to remove, dry, clean, and protect until they could be retrieved.  Michel and Fred fought to recover from the hours trapped beneath it all, relying on ICU staff to bring them through.  Fred lives with the pain of injury and grief.  Michel has moved on to the next adventure.

As I sit in front of a fire two weeks after the blizzard warning was issued, I see a few small remnants of the overwhelming snowfall that buried the city so recently.   It is almost spring.  Days are longer.  Temperatures warmer.  Sun melts and liberates and gives us hope.  I welcome the change, but before winter leaves for good, I want to capture lessons learned at such a high cost in recent days.

Safety is an illusion.  Health is an illusion.  Sanity is an illusion. Earthly life is subject  to powerful forces  that we struggle imperfectly to understand and to control:  forces of nature, forces of disease, forces of mental and emotional chaos.  If I cannot control the forces that threaten my body, what can I do to re-capture peace of mind in the face of loss, anguish, and fear?  I can identify and address the obvious threats and feel a little healthier and more secure in the process.   But if I stop there, I am missing the point.

At a deeper level, I seek to make friends with dying, and with the living that takes me there.  I want to embrace the finite gift of time in which to learn and love, to grow and to contribute.  We can not control the length of our lives or the time and manner of our leaving.  We can, however, savor each moment, experiencing that moment fully and holding it lightly for the time, when it comes, of letting go. 

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How do you respond when all the news is bad?  When bad news comes close to home?  Where do you find the spirit to pick up and start fresh?