A Breath of Myrtle

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes. He smiles upon the earth.”

- ‘The Prophet’, Kahlil Gibran

I wouldn’t call it religion. I’m sure some would, but I don’t. It’s subtler than bread and wine, more powerful than Om, and too circular for science.

I recently heard a sound I never thought I would. It was the peculiar crunch of years of memories underfoot, what used to be timber for the walls of my room providing treble to the bass of my footsteps. The ceiling was black from the smoke of the fire that consumed my bed and the air was thick with the smell of atomized wood, plastic and metal. Up until I heard that crunch, I harbored a hope that I would be able to walk in and dust some ash off, continue to live my life as before, just with another story to tell. It was only until a few hours later that I realized I didn’t have to give up that hope — my stuff was gone, no doubt, but the story I had to tell had only become richer.

I’ve always considered myself a spiritual person. Not religious, mind you, but spiritual — the difference being that my faith wasn’t placed in a concrete thing or set of teachings, but rather in introspection and a belief that my path was my own to forge. I didn’t believe in something — capital ’s’ or otherwise — that I couldn’t see and rationalize for myself. I’ve come to realize that this philosophy of mine was incomplete. I’ve said the phrase “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans,” more times than I can count, but only now do I fully understand it. A fire is a wonderful reminder that life and its entropy is bigger than any one person. But there is something it isn’t bigger than.

In the hours that followed the fire, the emotion I felt more than any other was gratitude. Gratitude for the fire-fighters and policemen that quelled the flames and kept everyone safe and gratitude for the people walking down the street who felt compelled to stop and offer their help to everyone affected. But no group of people deserves more love and thanks than the friends who made sure that wherever I found myself felt like home, and my family that made sure that despite everything that went up in flames, I could still land on my feet.

The one thing that entropy is not bigger than is the people we surround ourselves with. They have the power to turn the crackle of flame to a cackle of laughter, the smell of ash to a breath of myrtle, and the loss of material to a realization of meaning. I’ve realized the overarching narrative to the story of my life, and it’s the people in it.

I’m thankful for every single one of the people in my life, and I’m thankful that I have the chance to give back to them, in whatever way I can, as much as they’ve given to me.

This is my bread and wine, this is my Om, and this is my science; and it is infinitely bigger than me. I guess my gratitude extends to the fire as well.