I read a book about werewolves. Not my usual material.
In the story, the werewolf eventually accepts that he has to live as this monster. He comes to love his life as it is. He lets go of the big questions and just lives.
I’ve explored the metaphysical questions. Chased elusive clues down many paths. After all that, I have no solid answers. What I found surprised me.
I’ve dropped the questions.
I gave up wishing life were different. Explaining away suffering today for a glorious life as spirit. I now take little solace in hearing “her spirit is still with you” after a loved one dies. Maybe it’s true. But that being no longer lives. We no longer can touch or hear or taste or see. And it’s that sensory experience that makes life exquisite. And how we engage the world.
I believe what we will remember at the end of life is the love we’ve shared with others and our sensual memories. A song. The aroma of a wood fire or a pine tree. A lover’s touch. The sweetness of a fine wine. And the snapshot visions of our lives and loved ones.
This is not cynicism. I feel too much joy. This is not new age woo hoo. I’m too practical for that.
It is about living fully today. With whatever life is doling out at the moment. It’s about acceptance and compassion and even forgiveness. It’s about being wildly alive and reveling in your humanness. In all of your senses.
And that is the root of joy.
Gifts often come from obscure places. This one from a fun, but surprising book called The Last Werewolf.
As the werewolf says, love life because life’s all there is.