Now are come the days of brown leaves. They fall from the trees; they flutter on the ground. ... I hear them tell you of their borning days, when they did come into the world as leaves. ... Today, they were talking of the time before their borning days of the springtime. ... They told how they were a part of earth and air, before their tree-borning days. And now they are going back. They go back to the earth again. But they do not die.
What if your dying is an angel? And what if your dying job, should you choose to accept it,
is to wrestle this angel of your dying instead of fighting it? ...Wrestling isn't what happens
to you. It is what you do. And you will not be alone in it...Living your way of life wrestles
the way life has of being itself: That is how meaning is made...That is what the news of your
death could mean: It could mean the beginning, unadorned, common, and singular, of your
one true life and its work...
Come to your death as an angel to wrestle instead of an executioner to fight or flee from and you turn your dying into a question instead of an edict: What shall my life mean? What shall my time of dying be for? What is it going be like, that cottage of darkness?
Come to your death as an angel to wrestle instead of an executioner to fight or flee from and you turn your dying into a question instead of an edict: What shall my life mean? What shall my time of dying be for? What is it going be like, that cottage of darkness?