I left a 5-gallon bucket out in the garden a couple of months ago. Then the hurricane blew through. Yesterday i found a dead mouse floating in a half a bucket of water. Death by drowning. An unintentional death.
Mostly in the garden we intend death--to slugs and bugs, voles and moles, beetles and weeds. We plot the demise of woodchucks. We pray for hunters to decimate the deer population. We feel exasperated enough to wish death on 4-legged, 6-legged, 8-legged, or many-legged creatures.
But an unintended death strikes our heart. "Oh! Poor dear."
We sigh, breathing out the contraction of surprise, horror, and really, the fear of our own death. After all, death may overtake us in some surprising way. The body and the ego: Gone.
If we look closely enough, we see that we die every minute. Our ever-changing experience arises and passes away, moment by moment.
We go to the garden to touch the pulse of life--growing, blooming, and fruiting before our eyes. And dying.
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