Born of Death


When i was born a woman was told she was not wanted–the child was not wanted.

When i was born, there came a flood of tears of inconsolable regret.

Entering the world in such circumstances is not so unusual. The phenomenon occurs with an ill-wind that blows through the family tree, sending leaves in every direction, scattering souls indiscriminately.

And so we are born from the womb where we are planted–the karmic throw of the dice. In this, whatever we are meant to learn grows to fruition–good or bad–rotten or joyfully and abundantly good.

When i was born, i was thrown to the wolves, but wolves seem kinder. There are times when being raised by wolves teaches us ugly truth, and creates a wall between a loving innocent life and hearts of tragic sorrow.

But sorrow is a death that is livable. Sorrow is a death that is a womb from where divine perfection can bloom in a resolute fashion.

This bloom is so tender and real that springtime seldom holds one so rare.

There are souls that suffer so greatly. There are souls who mainly find solace in demanding a truth in being, a truth in coming apart, a truth in falling to pieces like a tired old flower dropping its petals to the dank foul ground in hopelessness.

My life is born of death. The death in my life swallowed me whole.

And somehow the truth of a greater person–a person or true light, a person invisible to all but God–made herself known.

This invisible one who is living within the hardship of all the suffering of the world is free to traverse the view of a broken soul, and be the right light for a suffering world.

Death has no sting for one such as this. Death is birth–and what a birth it is to be born of death.


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