The Trouble with Daoists
Today, I write through the ethers about my inner-conflict whether to call myself a Daoist.
This inhaling and exhaling
Of Life and Death
The Breath of Life
The Last Gasp of Death
Chaotic dispersion of energy into the ether. Life shakes Death’s hand to pull soul into vessel. The aging and degradation of life. The renewal and release of death. An old soul handed across many times over. A soul is born in the cosmos so that the Universe may witness itself.
In death, we expand through the ether. We fold through dimensions. We seep through the membrane of time. We explore without boundary the sheet of our spirit until the tension of life is properly released to the stars remaining in placidity, riding the surface waves of forces unknown, until we feel the gentle tiffing of consciousness dawn us back to the order of life once more; until we are prepared to bring awareness to another body, to be sustained by the challenge of survival, the longing of love—to experience again time, relief, pain, waiting, to be bound-up by a moment instead of stretched through the eternal.
The Reaper of Death ushers order to chaos. The Breath of Life collects the soul into a living system. Energy is taken and given. The lapping waves of eternity wash a soul to shore and reclaim another with the retreating tide. Such is time—but the beating of a heart.
All the soul’s experience of time relative to the cadence of a pulse, the circulation of fluid, the call and response of electricity. The warmth of the light of life. The cold of Death’s dark vacuum. Both giving and receiving—a great swirling of fluid forces—that ether of soul and cosmos, waxing and waning in its stretch across the infinite, and back to the singularity of the soul. The eternal churning of forces between chaos and order. We move through life and death with patient persistence.
All becomes one and one becomes all. Nothing gained or lost—but transfigured through perpetual motion of energy. When we stop what we are doing—to cease the micro-movements of our lives and attune to the greater movement around us—we begin to reach across life and feel its pulse.
Why do we personify Death so precisely as the solitary Reaper—that singular, ominous force? We leave unimagined a single entity for life: one being, which presents itself to our collective consciousness as the arbiter, which claims our soul from the tranquil abyss to live again.
What is the pleasure of life and death but to be swept up in the current?