What  do you think has become of the dead?

“They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout [of grass] shows there really is no death, And if was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.”

-Song of Myself, Walt Whitman

I’ve been caught up in Walt Whitman of late;  consumed in particular by the simple, spiritual tone of Song of Myself.   This particular line hoisted above captured me with its rapturous interpretation of what it means to die, or rather that death ceased to be the moment life appeared.  “Life goes onward, and outward, nothing collapses, To die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.”

What a profound statement to assume life cannot be undone.  Sure, as a human, we may be re-bundled into something else, but our essence of aliveness cannot be destroyed.   We are as simple as blades of grass renewing over seasons; embodied in different green strands rooted to the earth, but of one life that is greater than the individual blade.  

“I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

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