alive

Sometimes I think that after we die, we will fully understand how exquisite it was to have a body.  This vehicle of bones and flesh that walks us around and smells our roses is no small miracle.  I'm sure I will miss the touch of a breeze on my arms, the texture of bread in my mouth, the warmth of another human's hand.  I will probably long for a sense of gravity, groundedness, mass.  Earth beneath my feet.  All the verbage:  running, dancing, shouting, singing, swimming, lunging, digging, rolling, walking, climbing, resting, playing.  I will wish to feel the fullness of a laugh in my belly, the excitement of attraction, and the wetness of tears on my face.

And I think I will miss the pain.  There is something so very real and mortal and exhilarating about suffering.  Sharpness, sting, ache, burn, soreness, bruise.  They are somehow important. 

The deep kind of sorrow that seems to tunnel holes through my soul - will I feel that when I'm just made of spirit?  Or the experience of hearing a mournful melody or seeing a breathtaking vista - something so beautiful that it actually hurts, as if a river of clear water is coursing through my heart.  Will I feel that?

I don't know.  But what I do know is that being alive is exquisite.  I want to feel every itch and sun ray, jump in more puddles, and weep through the heartbreaks ahead.  I want to get to the end of mortality and feel like I lived.