The Veil Is Thin

I don’t want the human world today.

I watched the mail carrier speed down our gravel road and run over a squirrel.

Back tire spitting him out, his body left behind like debris.

All it took was a second—just one second—and he’ll never feel the sun on his face again.

Can we just pause for a moment and give that the respect it deserves?

The veil between everything we love and have held against our mortal bones and the great beyond is so thin.

At any moment, it can tear in two.

So, today, I just don’t want the human world.

We treat everything so casually: life and death, love, kindness, this earth we share, the living beings we share it with, the power in that moment when two eyes meet.

I just want it to keep raining.

Isn’t there something sacred in the way a leaf becomes a cup to catch the drops?

Or how light glistens through water, the smell of a dirt road freshly wet, the intricate design of a mushroom, the way wildflowers sway in the wind?

I just want to walk on moss-covered stones and watch a worm burrow into soil.

I want to marvel at birds and try to name each one by its song.

I want to stand under the canopy of a catalpa tree, soaking in the rhythm of rain on leaves.

And I want to say a silent prayer for a little squirrel I didn’t know— whose life was still precious to me.

And I want you to say it with me.

Because I need us to remember that the veil is thin, we need to love this life until we can love it no more.

Writing Prompt:

What small, ordinary moments feel sacred to you? How do you go about loving your life?