A Thousand Deaths

On Taking a Walk

A DEATH by Thomas Lynch

In the end you want the clean dimensions of it mentioned,
to know the thing adverbially—while asleep,
after long illness, tragically in a blaze-

as you would the word of any local weather:
where it gathered, when it got here, how it kept
the traffic at a standstill, slowed the pace,

closed the terminals. Lineage & Issue, Names &
Dates are facts you gain most confidence in facing,
histories and habitats and whereabouts.

Speak of it, if you speak of it at all, in parts.
The C.V.A. or insufficiency or growth
that grew indifferent to prayer and medication.

Better a tidy science for a heart that stops
than the round and witless horror of someone who
one dry night in perfect humor ceases measurably to be.

---

I don’t walk for exercise. I probably should, because exercise is good for your brain and whatnot. I walk for reflection. To notice, slow down, and pay attention.

There is a lot to see along my somewhat quiet Oklahoma road today.

The sky is overcast, threatening rain but not delivering, making the air so thick you can bite it and sending my hair into a frizzy mess. A small rabbit sits across the road, watching me cautiously but clearly feeling safe, as long as I keep my distance. Just to my right, a brown thrasher flails on the ground. It appears she’s injured. She moves as quickly as she can from me but does not fly. As I approach, fear fills her wide eyes; she assumes I won’t let her live. When I walk by again later, she is gone.

A car approaches, windows rolled down. Two men sit in the front seat and they slow down as they drive by. (Any woman can agree that this can be terrifying, and we have to trust our gut somewhat on this.) They watch me as they drive on, speeding away after they pass. The air reeks of marijuana; it’s likely they contribute to our street’s ditch weed issue.

Further on, a portion of the road is lined with purple poppy mallows. They are just starting to pop up. I pick one; the house along the road will mow in a few days and they’ll all be gone. A few feet away, I discover the carcass of the neighbor’s missing husky at the base of the tree line. She was a beautiful dog, and though all that is left is a nightmarish pile of fur and bone, I am sure it’s her. The fur is still striped black and white where it hasn’t been stained with oxidized blood. She used to talk to me from her backyard; we shared a fence. I remember her ice blue eyes and curious snout popping through the hole at ground level caused by rain runoff. We would talk while I took care of my tomatoes.

Today I saw life.

Today I saw death.

My first instinct was to keep this observation to myself, because it makes people uncomfortable. Why would I write about my neighbor’s missing dog? That’s sad. But I think the discomfort is important.

We all will die a thousand deaths in our lifetime. What we know will crumble and decay and turn to dust. We may not phrase it that way. “I’m going through a job change.” “I lost a friend.” “I can no longer talk to my kid.” But it happens. To everyone. I am not the same person today that I was ten years ago. Hell, not one year ago. That woman is dead and gone.

Tangental thought: I have a weird obsession with dirt. I love to get it under my fingernails as I plant or throw clay on a wheel or just spend time outside. (Side note: Oklahoma red clay is fascinating to me; we have a tendency to lament over its non-porous nature, but we really should be considering the phenomenal microbiome that exists inside.) What is dirt but death in action? It’s what happens when life breaks down at a cellular level returning the possibility of life back to the place where growth happens. Without good soil, nothing grows.

We have to die a thousand deaths to continue living. It puts a new lens on “you are dust, and to dust you shall return”, doesn’t it (Gen 3:19)? Do we feel good about dying to one area of ourselves, to one area of our lives if it means that we get to start a new life in a new way? I think we can thank pop culture for making this seem selfish or wrong. It’s necessary. We are renewed day by day. Reborn. Refreshed. (2 Cor 4:16). Eventually, something will change.

Change may be hard. It may be scary. It may look like the flesh and bone of a once beloved dog. It may feel like death.

But it’s just life waiting to happen.

Blessings, friends.