As I’ve gone through life I’ve picked up on odd pieces of
music and marked them out as good candidates for my funeral. Given the nature
of the occasion, I think this is my favourite because there’s such an air of
optimism, elegance and simple peace about it. When I did finally get to listen
to it again, I was struck by the scene I imagined before me. I was at my own
funeral watching proceedings, and was struck by the fact that the people gathered
there were focussed on the memory of me. And I felt that for the first time
during my current mortal existence, I mattered.
Ah, well, I suppose that can be put down to poor potty
training as a child, but the next little note is something different.
There was a vole on my path this evening. He was sitting still
and seemingly uninjured, but his head was down and I judged that he’d reached
the end of his time. I picked him up gently and placed him in the greenhouse
where he could at least be peaceful and free of the unwelcome attention of
predators. And he had my blessing, for what it’s worth.
The point here is that I know that death is the natural and
necessary conclusion to every life. I know it and accept it, but I can’t accept
it with equanimity. Every death hurts, even when it’s only that of a lowly little
vole.
So where does this photograph of my ex wife fit into
the scheme of things:
She’s very small within the overall image, but because she’s
wearing red – at my behest – she’s the most prominent element in it. And maybe that
gives the clue as to why I still like it after all these years.
You see, I’m singularly unimpressed by the powerful politicians,
the wealthy business magnates and the all-conquering heroes. It seems to me
that if anything matters at all in this crazy world, it’s the small things on
which everything else is built.
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