On the ashes of the past

There are those who are buried alive, even before their own burial. That was a special case mountaineer Aaron Ralston who, in one of his ascents to steep peaks, had an accident in which his arm was caught and broken under the weight of a huge rock.

In order to survive, he had the courage to cut off a limb with his knife, thus avoiding dying near them.

The an abandoned and dead limb would be later recovered and even cremated in a somewhat eerie ceremony, for my taste, and her ashes scattered at the site of that tragic accident, as if it were a real burial.

At first I thought it very bad taste to give a funeral to a crushed hand that was already irretrievably lost; It seemed to me as if someone had been pre-empted by the inevitable solemnity of the funeral, only because his unconscious limb rushed to meet the The great truth, leaving the title behind.

But, drawing parallels with life, I began to think about how many of us also go through that funeral rite, without perhaps losing a physical arm, but sometimes we have lost much more than that. Every time we fall victim to circumstances to the past that exhausts and consumes us, throwing us into very deep wells of despair, in one way or another we also bring our own funeral, because in those periods of gloomy hopelessness our lives also pass.

It’s not about when we die, it’s about that the real utility we provide every minute we live.

Every sadness that becomes the universe, depriving our lives of everything else, is assimilated to those thieves who steal from us the most precious thing that can be in us, our peace; every unsurpassed experience he repeats uselessly, not leaving behind that pupa which envelops the pain, to then become the teacher it should be, makes us part of the dark communities that are called to watch over the deceased person, not realizing that we are watching over ourselves.

Life, as if it were a root, must weed its way downwards, moving obstacles, feeding on pain, and then being born again, above that surface which always yearns for light and the future, and never for darkness. the past, which has already died. A life that does not bear fruit is sustained only on the miserable roots of a dark past, which it always clings to, instead of transforming and flourishing; whoever holds it has not wanted to learn to leave behind that substrate that should be the residue of enriching experiences that have disappeared.

Many are trapped in background, lamentation for what was. A meaningful life should make us look for the sun that rises every day, instead of being numb and paralyzed in the pain that was necessary in the very process of our growth.

We create our own light by leaving behind, in the past, gift wraps that have already been opened or urns that contain the ashes of the traumas that we have had to endure in our lives. So that mountaineer did nothing but leave behind, s scattered ashes of the dead pastan event that, although traumatic, helped him live more fully.