we are risen, tangled

it is a strange thing to ask...
but when you eat something fresh, something you picked or caught or

gathered with your very own hands
something that had its own life and has now become your sustenance
when that miracle touches the softcells of your mouth
and its particles become
scent
flavour
texture
when you let them wash into your body, through your systems,
and they become your blood, your energy, your life ~
do you think about your own death?

i thought about this when i read Mary Oliver's poem, the Fish... the miracle of the tangled life we lead with all that is around us, all that sustains us and the incredible amount of Life that goes so completely unoticed every day. ingested, yet not fully digested.  but what happens when we notice how life leads into life, and notice those little deaths that offer us life each day?  would we live differently, die differently? is the light somehow different, the taste that much sweeter?  the mysteries more wondrous....

The Fish 

The first fish

I ever caught

would not lie down

quiet in the pail

but flailed and sucked

at the burning

amazement of the air

and died

in the slow pouring off

of rainbows. Later

I opened his body and separated

the flesh from the bones

and ate him. Now the sea

is in me: I am the fish, the fish

glitters in me; we are

risen, tangled together, certain to fall

back to the sea. Out of pain,

and pain, and more pain

we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished

by the mystery.

~ by Mary Oliver