Yesterday afternoon, I watched the groundhogs abandon their blackberry-sheltered burrow near the patio and begin digging new tunnels in the steep, rocky bank above the stream. From my perch across the water, I saw them emerge tail-first from their prospective home, dragging rocks and soil from the depths. Their excavations tumbled down the bank into the clear water, each stone marking their labor with a silver splash.
The new location held promise. Here, they would be safe from the lawn mower’s weekly assault, could drink without venturing under hawks’ watchful eyes, and might find refuge from foxes in the steep terrain. Fresh grass sprouted along the greening banks, offering endless salads of tender shoots. Their choice seemed wise.
Yet my stomach tightened, knowing what they could not. Twice a year, sometimes more, this gentle stream transforms. After heavy rains, water cascades from the surrounding heights, turning our sleepy brook into a writhing brown serpent. Even in milder storms, the streambed shifts and flows, rearranging itself like a restless dreamer. Banks crumble. Mysterious rocks emerge to form new shoals while islands vanish beneath the current. A chest-deep fishing pool becomes ankle-shallow overnight. Where the groundhogs now dig their home, water flowed not long ago.
Neither good nor bad, this spot is just another place to raise young until change arrives—whether by fox or flood. The happy couple seems content, making their way down the bank to sip cool water and feast on tender greens, whiskers twitching in the spring air.
I’ve never had a philosophical discussion with a groundhog, but perhaps they do not need such abstractions. We humans measure and divide existence into maps of time and space. Groundhogs simply dig, eat, mate, and be—their minds perhaps more perfectly tuned to the eternal now.
Our human brains’ ability to map what is against the imaginary grid of time and space has given us both advantages and burdens. Because we remember the past, we imagine futures. All comfort and calamity that came before might come again. Because we view our world against the concept of space, we are drawn to the transient things that fill it, judging one as better or worse than the other. This anxiety sets us to work. We tell ourselves stories about the future we want or expect. Then, we use what little we comprehend to achieve it—and hold onto it forever.
But there is one truth about the future that we all know with certainty yet fail to truly believe.
We, too, build our lives by a flooding stream—careers crafted with care, houses earned through decades of labor, relationships tended like garden roses, memories of happy times, all our stories. The stream flows. Homes flood or burn. Rust claims the carefully maintained car. Money slips away. All marriages end in loss. Time sweeps parents, children, and pets downstream. Dust gathers on family photos. Memory thins and tears like worn cloth.
The water will rise and sweep away all we have built, all we love, all we are. The rush will break our grip and tear away what we hold most precious. Death, coming with the certainty of tomorrow’s sunrise, will carry everything downstream.
This is our invitation.
As we lose what we love, we are given the opportunity to see. The pain of loss opens our eyes beyond the little we think we understand, letting us witness the fierce beauty of our flowing universe. The shock of loss invites us to glimpse the unity that is becoming and becoming and becoming—countless forms, like waves rising, crashing, and reforming on the face of a great sea.
In this dynamic unity, there is no solid ground. Everything we grasp will slip away. If all things are eventually lost, then nothing can truly be gained. And if nothing can truly be gained, nothing can truly be lost. To be sure, you—and everything you cling to—are falling. The miracle is that falling without a ground is indistinguishable from flight.
What freedom in this truth! What lightness!
In this endless dance of becoming and dissolving and becoming again, our actions ring clear as a cardinal’s song in morning air. Each act ripples outward—a kind word, a moment of patience, a hand extended in darkness. These echoes travel far beyond our sight, easing suffering or adding to its weight.
Everything else flows like mist through our fingers. Wealth, achievements, love—even this carefully constructed self—shine and fade like dew on grass. Perfect because they pass. Precious because they vanish. Beautiful beyond words because they cannot stay.
Something extraordinary blossoms when you finally learn to hold this life’s emptiness in one palm and its beauty in the other. You may be surprised by the laughter that rises from your depths like spring water from stone. This is not the brittle laugh of denial or the sharp bark of cynicism but the full-throated roar of one who sees the universe and finds their place in its dance.
5 Responses
This one brought me to tears, though from sadness or joy I cannot say.
🙏🏾
My sister and best friend, took her life last fall… left 4 kids behind. No one could have predicted, but she often said she felt an almost ‘homesick’ feeling and claustrophobic in her own skin. Reading through these entries has become a daily mediation for me Bill. Long sleepless nights, I try to make sense of it, reading her goodbye letter, how badly she wanted to leave this planet – but physically fine – meanwhile you’re making the most out of what seems impossible – physically, mentally, spiritually, etc. Thank you.
I can’t begin to imagine how difficult this must be.
Sickness is sickness, and death is death. They come to us all, in many forms. While I am no stranger to despair, my disease paralyzes my body—yet it still allows me to do what your sister’s illness took from her. There is no doing better or worse.
Nor does it have to make sense. Illness and death are part of our transient, ever-renewing nature—and a bright bell reminding us of the compassion we owe to all living things, including ourselves.
My heart goes out to you, your sister, your family, and everyone affected by this. I hope my meditations continue to offer some comfort.
This one gave me chills. Deep truths for anyone, whether facing imminent mortality or not.