In writing this to you now, I taste again the nectar of that butterfly’s presence and the wonder of my father’s spirit alighting (even if just in my imagination). What a perennial gift writing is, leading us, when we let it, deep into the heart. To harvest the nectar. To harvest love.
Some time ago, I found a compelling passage in a small-in-size-huge-in-impact book called TRUE LOVE, A Practice for Awakening the Heart by the Buddhist monk and teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh.
My father died almost a month ago in a hospice facility, surrounded by family singing the Shma, the holiest of Jewish prayers, proclaiming that God is One. I wrote this piece a few weeks before my father died this month, not knowing how imminent his death.
Don’t postpone joy.
Don’t tuck it in a pocket and forget which one.
Don’t tell it just one more thing, then…
Don’t give joy lower status than all the other children of need.
