Each time I witness someone approach their last breath, my heart softens. I’m infused with their fragility and my heart space opens wider and deeper with each observing. Where is this taking me, my rational mind wants to know. Perhaps no-where you can name.
What I am able to name is an expanding sense of vulnerability: not as weakness or anxiety, but as the melting of knowing (or needing to know).
As Rilke writes–
… I yearn to belong to something, to be contained
in an all-embracing mind that sees me
as a single thing.
… I yearn to be held
In the great hands of your heart–
Oh let them take me now.
Into them I place these fragments, this life …
and in another poem:
You, my own deep soul,
trust me. I will not betray you.
My bloood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.
source: Rilke, Rainer Maria, 1875-1926. Rilke’s book of hours: love poems to God. Translated by Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy. 1996. New York: Riverhead Books.