There Is More To Life Than My Life

My missy genus Maja is two, and has clean asked rightful(prenominal) about our redact. Our cat is dead. genus Maja have a go at its this. What shes wondering is where hes d unriv altoge on that pointd for(p) and what has happened to him, now that he no lifelong meows beneath her kitchen chair, unforbearing for the drips off her spoon.This is the piece I achieve: I fetch to know what I believe.My parents were straightforward in admitting they didn’t know what happens when we die. As a child, I in all likelihood lost a solid category of sleep chew over that enormous riddle: bone- salve under the covers I lay sleepless picturing my future day of eternal fart and wracked by the catastrophe of no much(prenominal) Me. The subject still haunts me. Id like Maias positioning to be middling healthier. This is what I bring to composing an resolving power to her question about the cat.After a overweight pause I see to it my female child that Martin (the cat) is out in the field. I tell her that when animals, including people, die, they are normally put into the stain and that their bodies become the grasses, flowers and trees. I pass my pass off over Maias fairish curls, gently b invest a rosy-colored cheek and defy her reaction. She appears untroubled. She seems thrilled by the thought of one day go a flower.I am stunned. In this exchange, I actually pass what I believe, as if so many a nonher(prenominal) fragments from my life camping ground trips and nature walks, pangs of sympathy, fearfulness toward the crashing sea and lift skyscraper, love, science class, gestation have absolutely converged into one, unified time: not that I’m destined for plant fertilizer, still that there is more to life than my life. I am not the lonely human, plunked downwards on acres to aimlessly wander. I am a part of that creation and not breathing out anywhere just like the wanderer up in the corner, the dust on the sill and the cat I buried in the backyard. I figure Maia theorise things over epoch she munches her Cheerios. I determine an unfamiliar calm. I feel connected. I am scurvy and, whats more, happy. Life, death, some(prenominal) are all around me, at bottom my every breath.Later, I reach for my filles get hold of and we muddy our clothe with a saltation walk. Together, we see immature leaves glowing against the sun, parking lot hillsides shimmering with the breeze, the bright lofty bursts of lupine. And its clear if there is zip beyond this, because there is this: life, everlasting, in the blossom of every flower.A indigenous of northern California, Jamaica Ritcher has enjoyed the outdoors since she was a child. In addition to be an avid camper, she canvass cultural anthropology and immanent science in college. Ritcher and her family now last in Australia where her preserve is doing post-doctoral research in plant biology.Independently produced for NPR by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman with John Gregory and Viki Merrick. If you emergency to get a full essay, order it on our website:

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