10 o'clock tonight

Rowan watched our Italian neighbour kill two chickens tonight. I was walking to the back of our garden holding two red hens upside down by their legs, when Rowan asked, "where are you going with those?" "I'm taking them to Nona. They're old and ready to die. She's going to kill them. Do you want to come?" "Yes!" "Are you sure?" "Yes." Nona held each hen's body like a baker holds a soft dough before it's kneaded, gently twisting the hen's head, like folding a cloth napkin ... "Rowan, are you sure?" "Yes, Dad." Nona slowly twisted, held, twisted, held, one more turn, then a slow pull with a slight bend, and crack, neck broken. And then the wings started flapping, and kept going for what seemed like a very long time. "Are you sure she's dead Nona?" "Oh, yes. Feel here." "I trust you," I said.

I thought it was time I learned how to kill a chicken. A skill. A connection to death. A re-skilling. Rowan said, "Good thing it wasn't the chicks. Good thing." And went on her merry way. As if it was just part of life. Part of what needed to be done. We hide from death. Package it away. Clean it up. Dress it. As if we're not part of it. We don't talk about it as if that will make it go away. Prevent it from happening. Like talking about it will cause it. And we hide it from our children. As if they can't handle it. Can't cope. And yet, they don't make the same meaning as us. They get that it happens. That it's an ending. And that something else comes from it. Instead of avoiding it, what if we were to confront it? Admit it's certainty. And relish in the power that awareness gives us in this moment. Being alive.

I came across an obituary last week. Life summed up in a column. A short story. Who was this person? How did they die? Who loved them? And this person I knew. Went to school together. Same age. Born the same year. Had two young kids. He was me. Is me. At 43. How does this happen. 43. The end of our play. Like the film reel jumping its spools at the movies and melting down. Lights go on. And you're sitting there with a half-eaten bag of stale popcorn, and massive watered down coke. Waiting. Looking around squinty eyed as if the projectionist is going to thread the film back on. Get it going again. What if it doesn't. What if that's it. It just ends. Half way through. That's part of my ending story. I'm half way through. 42 years. At least another 42 to go. Half way! Imagine all the stuff that's happened in my life to this point. And I'm half way. Double it. And it just gets better. This play. Better and better. Not easier. But more layers. More depth. More moments of weaving our web. More chances to connect. To build. Home. Relationships. Builders we are. Weavers.

I imagine we all have an image, a sense of what our own death will look like. Probably haven't really realized that we do. It just runs in the background. Plane crash. Old age. Alone. Surrounded. We have a story of our own end. And it guides us. Without us knowing. Our ending story. The end of our play on this earthly stage. For this life. We turn into something else. Or do we? There is a Buddhist exercise where you pretend you are going to die at 10 o-clock tonight. And you live your day as if it is your last. Every moment. Every interaction. Every pause, eye contact, conversation, walk by the river, bite of scrambled eggs. Every moment is your last. And you savour it. Each one. As it is your only one. And then you savour the next moment. And the next. Until you go to sleep. And 10 o'clock arrives. And then you wake up the next day, and smile. And begin again.