We are men of but one breath
and know not the appointed time or moment
of our departure from this world.
—Siri Guru Granth - Ang 660
I often sit on my balcony and observe the birds that inhabit the lake. There’s a flock of pigeons that flies around together, and sometimes, I meditate on their cooing and fluttering sounds. In the past, there was this one albino pigeon that stood out from the rest. I’ll probably never know what happened to her, but one day, she disappeared, and I haven’t seen her since.
I was meditating recently and a middle school crush of mine—whom I hadn’t thought about much since then—popped into mind. I realized how her teasing me back then had planted a kind of minor insecurity that I’d apparently been harboring for all these years. After letting that go, I decided to look her up on social media and even considered reaching out after all this time to say hello.
Turns out she’s dead now.
It was kind of jarring, really. I don’t know why; she’s been nothing but a foggy memory for the greater part of my conscious life. But discovering the death of someone who had influenced one of the stories I’ve been holding onto was sobering for whatever reason. I think it was a reminder that people who aren’t even alive anymore can still have a grip over your life if you’re not adamant about seeking out even the most minor of traumas.
I don’t think there’s much more to be said on the matter, but to sum this up with a parallel metaphor: just as the albino pigeon disappeared into the ether, so too has this young lady and her influence over my unconscious mind.