stories yet to be told 

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oh, beside me

a beautiful memory sits.

always she

rests in the words said of what is and what will be

and stories

yet to be woven

in the words of a storyteller,

when he pauses,

who sells pennies to people

for them to throw in the well

to make wishes for stories with happy endings.

 

oh, we will not be able to tell

if there is happy ending

until the end of the story

my friend.

so listen,

listen closely

for stories yet to be told.

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Beginnings and endings. Endings and beginnings. Death and life. Life and death. A story told and a story yet to be told. It is sometimes difficult to see where one ends and another begins. The cycle just goes on; until it doesn’t. Simplistically, seasons remind of us the cycle of Life <not death> and that death, in and of itself a sad event, contains at its very core the very simple concept that without Death, there is no Life.

This was immortalized in pop culture by Blood Sweat & Tears in their absolutely fabulous song “and when I die”:

And when I die and when I’m dead, dead and gone,
there’ll be one child born and a world to carry on, to carry on.

I’m not scared of dying and I don’t really care.
If it’s peace you find in dying, well, then let the time be near.
If it’s peace you find in dying, when dying time is here,
just bundle up my coffin cause it’s cold way down there,
I hear that’s it’s cold way down there, yeah, crazy cold way down there.
And when I die and when I’m gone,
there’ll be one child born and a world to carry on, to carry on.

While each Life is a stepping stone for every future generation each death represents a stepping stone for, well, the future. or let’s say “a story yet to be told.”

Stories demand to be told and stories demand to be heard. And while death is something we dislike facing, facing seasons remain something we must face year in and year out. It is a constant affirmation of the turning of time and that some things we may have gained will most likely be inevitably lost in the natural turn of time. And as we face these things, we craft stories to tell.

Winter’s stories are being told, rewritten, and crafted even as I type this. Winter is the time of Life’s strategic retreat and conservation of what gives it all life.

It is not death. And it is not decay.

It is Life’s thoughtful way to insure its existence and survival.

It is the time of incubation and rest and restoration for all things to come in the following year.

The last are the stories yet to be written, and the stories yet to be told.

And within winter we often find a time of reflection and, uhm, comfort. In winter’s dark nights the stars are at their clearest and we have the opportunity to see them as the sparks of potential and wishes and dreams and Life and, yes, stories.

I will not argue that as Life recedes in autumn and rests in winter, we get closer to connecting with death, but I do balk at thinking of autumn & winter as ‘things associated with death.’ I would argue it actually does a nice job of reminding us we need to let go of things. and, sure, maybe we connect with ‘the dead’ better at this time because it reminds us to celebrate what we had and embrace letting go.

But that is the thing about winter – it demands to not only be felt, but also that you meet it on its terms.

You cannot refuse its existence and you cannot ignore what was because what is … is starkly different. Where Life was once obvious it is now starkly absent. It is that absence that demands attention and attention demands stories.

I would note that all Eastern mysticism and ‘being in touch with the universe’ and the ‘natural ebb of the earth’ and all that stuff, at its core, just suggests that we pay attention. Pay attention to whatever energy seasons give us and more often than not that energy it gives us the energy to think about our lives, lives lost and lives yet to be lived. Yeah. Stories.

To be clear. Stories doesn’t mean we should celebrate impending death, but rather recognize, even in sadness, life & beauty resides in the future.

• Fall is of beautiful dying.
• Winter is of starkness of death.
• Spring is of rebirth from death.

“My death awaits among the falling leaves. In magicians mysterious sleeves. My death waits in a double bed. Sails of oblivion at my head. Pull up the sheets. Against the passing of time.”

Jacques Brel

All the stories remind us of the fact time does not stand still and no matter how hard we try and fill up the emptiness time offers us day in and day out inevitably leaves fall, winter comes and spring arises.

It is from that which stories arise. The stories yet to be told that purposefully explore the valuable relationship not only between Life and Death, but the past, present and the future. Ponder.