I have to be honest and say that the choosing to live alive is a lot harder than I thought it might be. One does not generally have to strive to live. Yet I find myself having to put forth effort to give breath back to this life. And during the hard weeks when simply getting out of bed to do the daily deeds of life is excruciating, the effort is all the more difficult.
In the last month since I declared my intention to live my life as what I actually am….alive, it feels as though all the smoky tendrils of death are wrapping themselves around my fingers and legs and arms with even more strength, trying to pull me back down into the grave. Death is greedy.
Death was overjoyed at my willingness to lie in the cold rock tomb viewing the outside world in a faded black and white. Death doesn’t like me to see things in color, to see the vibrancy and vitality of everything around me. And so it pulls and it swears and it whispers lies of comfort to try and make me stay.
Choosing to be alive was really my first step in beginning to fly. And both – the aliveness and the flight – wrestle with the contentedness of remaining where I’ve been for so long.
Bringing life back from death is a supernatural act, no matter how you look at it. It takes breath that isn’t my own to restitch sinews of muscle and to fill lungs that some moments I’d rather not go through the pain of having my chest crushed just to have my heart restarted.
You have to admit, dead really is so much easier than alive. But there are advantages to being alive, to feeling breath catch in your throat and your heart skip several beats as you inhale the ocean filled air.
And that life, the life that is truly lived as alive is worth the pain of resurrection.
And I’m choosing to hold onto and believe that, especially when it feels death’s grasp is digging deeper into my flesh and saying, “No, stay here.”