Last night I sat in a circle of souls gathered around a mother who had just lost her son, Feras. He was young. His passing was unexpected.
This circle of companions grieved together through prayer, stories, and song. A lingering embrace now-and-then to express words of consolation in whispered tones.
And I listened as my friend (Feras’ uncle) offered his sincerest reflections, “if we could take this moment here, and place it on the shelf to access in the future,” and he went on articulating with eloquence the chaos that was brewing in my own mind.
We wander this plane of existence as if we are immortal. The greatest error humanity commits is to assume that tomorrow is guaranteed.
Tomorrow is not guaranteed.
And we nurture this assumption. We indulge it, in fact, by holding grudges; obsessing over our possessions; disputing over what is petty; chaining ourselves to uncertain narratives in hopes of uncertain outcomes; postponing what is essential.
Along the way, we forget each other and we forget ourselves. We forget what is meaningful.
To defy this assumption of immortality we are challenged to live meaningfully, while addressing day-to-day affairs that seem meaningless.
I sit here in my office cubicle 40 hours a week–writing reports, analyzing numbers, scribbling nonsense on small, square yellow leaves–because I love my family, because I want to have a home where hearts can come together to create a community, and because I want to bring warmth to a cold system.
I do that in a half open grey box by pressing down on these keys.
But I also do that by making an effort to be ever mindful of what is meaningful, and not forgetting that Feras was with us on Wednesday, and on Thursday he was gone.