Not too long ago, I went to a funeral. At the cemetery, there were these little headstones: "Here lies. . ."
I just had to stop. This isn't just a headstone; this is a history.
There was a person who was alive. Good things happened and bad things happened.
There were rough days and smooth days; there were confusing days and clear days.
There were days that went this person's way and days that seemed so opposed to him.
A journey was made.
What is the difference between this headstone and me?
Am I more than a headstone with a name, some dates, and a few messages chiseled on it?
Isn't life more than that?
Isn't it that there is this thing called existence that rises above it all?
Above all the good and bad, right and wrong—all the judgments?
Isn't it that there is a kindness to be here? That this is a special moment called being alive?
How much do I recognize this moment? What am I concerned about today?
All the things that will happen?
Am I the least bit concerned about something that is finer than the finest hair—that cannot
be measured in width, height, or weight—and is the only difference between me and that headstone?
Do you know what it is?
It is this breath that comes in and out of you.
That is the difference.