The ground never again stops shaking.  Each tremor of the room is once again the end of the known world.  Families, friends, courtyards, streets, neighborhoods and whole cities reduced to rubble and dust. 

From dust we emerge, from dust we return.  Where is the Divine in this–I hear the murmurings.  Where is the good in the spirit here?

It is in the land beyond life and death.  As Krishna reprimands Arjuna in the Gita, “None of you have been born and none of you will die.  Get out there and be true to the dance you chose.”  (Ok, not translated literally.)  Someone once said to me–“So that means this politician is to be an asshole and I am to hate him.”  Sounds like a familiar dance to me.

So thousands die, cities are flattened debris, the world watches and sends as much love and help as possible.  Media shrinks it to the nearby country and anguish is the choice of news today.

If death is not a miser, but a path home, how many would scream at me when I say: Welcome home my beautiful dears, thank you for the astounding dance.