Waiting for the kingdom of the impossible

This day will always have a double-meaning for me. On one side of the Atlantic, it means deliverance and celebration; on another side, disappointment and sadness, and yet, also something subtly more, something leavened.

A year ago today, at this very moment, you were making your final dance on earth. Not long after, I wrote,

Perhaps, then, faith is perseverance in the face of the empirical, the exaltation of the word over the fact.  It says: here lies a body, yet the person still lives.  Past the horizon of evidence lies the kingdom of the impossible; under decaying molecules and fading memories hides the immortal.

I don’t believe you’re gone.  Somewhere, somehow, beyond the reach of time and the sorrow of flesh, you still dance.  And even in death we continue talking: I still haven’t learned how to pronounce the Flemish “uu” or “ui”, and you still challenge me to be my better self.

Now that a year has gone by, what do I think, what do I feel?

I still agree wholeheartedly with what I wrote then–perhaps even more so now.  Time has that quiet way of cementing sentiments.

And the dark feelings have also recessed. Yes, I’m still disappointed in you, and yes, I’m still angry, but not as much, and there will surely come a day when all that will be left is the gratitude that has also been there, the light intermingling with the dark, the intimate, inner thanksgiving for your friendship, which I believe has persevered beyond the grave.

What will continue to nag me, though, is a very self-centered Why? Yes, the question is about us, and it’s about me: Why was I at the station? I believe you and I were spiritually connected, as if by an unseen thread. You had the same odd feeling of synchronicity and tethering, and there was a brief moment when you mulled manifesting it more fully–but I pulled back. I was confused about what I really wanted.

Now I wonder whether I could have seen the signs, what subtle few you had given, had I just been clearer within my own self. My blindness haunts me, because most of all, I wonder how I ended up at the station. Why did our connection bring me there, at that precise moment, standing on the platform? It was as if I was ferrying you, unaware of my own function, to the final phase of your material life. I don’t know, I just don’t know–yet.

I must be patient, for that kingdom awaits me as it awaited you, and as it awaits all of us. I shall eventually have the answer. There is no rush. You had a train to catch, to usher you off to that realm beyond the empirical, while I must remain for the time being on the platform for mine to arrive.

And I do so with joy, because this material life is a lovely station–flawed, yes, but so busy and vibrant, so may trains leaving, yes, but also so many arriving, their passengers disembarking into this world in a sublime tumult. I am awed by the frenzy and the elegance; I am overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.

Thank you, Astrid, for teaching me the art of trainspotting.

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