By now you probably think I am preoccupied with death (this is my fifth blog). I’m not. I’m preoccupied with kindness. I talk about death because I am familiar with it. It happened to my son, my mother, my father, two of my best friends, and my husband. People I loved beyond measure. I talk about it, yes. I deal with it, because it is my experience. It is what I have to draw from; it is what I have been given, or what my soul has chosen as a vehicle to lead me to the gift the Universe had put aside for me. In my case, it was kindness.
I am getting mail now from people whose loved ones have died, and from people whose loved ones are about to die. Some are friends of mine, some I’ve never met. They have reached out to me because I am their sister. I am their friend. I am one with them, I am one of them. We are a tribe with a bloodline of pain. Nobody knows disbelief like we do. Nobody knows denial; nobody knows our distinct brand of devastation and anger. Nobody.
How is it, then, that I can stand here before you in public, and say what I know is true: that kindness is greater than all that? I can tell you that kindness is greater than death, because if it weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.
When death came to my son, I believed the Universe was a malevolent place, an arena of cruelty and indifference, with annihilation as its end game. Who deserves to die at seventeen? I had no reason to believe in life, until someone from long ago and far away came to me and told me a story. And I could no longer believe in death. I could only believe in kindness. For it was kindness that sent him, and kindness that made him come.
Listen to the first words he ever said to me: Beloved. Did you think our love had ceased to be, that we were gone forever because of the funeral pyres? Oh, no, Beloved. The fire did not consume us, nor could the desert wind and a thousand years keep us apart. Love is greater than fire, and wind, and time.
It was kindness that sent him, and kindness that made him come.