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by Crow
Rated: E · Prose · Cultural · #2170807
The fullness of life contained within.
          It may seem strange to say, but the embodiment of innumerable lives reside in jars. We most often are more comfortable calling them urns, but they are just fancy jars nevertheless. Usually, when we consider the idea of a jar we imagine those that contain our favorite jelly, jam, or those delicious preserves that grandma use to make. But the jar of which I refer is reserved for a more delicate and stately purpose. These jars appear in every conceivable form and contain the cremated remains of the dearly departed.
         Take a moment to think of that if you will. The sum total of a once vibrant and living body is now condensed to the confines of ornate enclosures and displayed on mantles, nooks, or wherever else they may rest safely apart from molestation or feline curiosity.
          But of course, there is a more somber and serious side to our musings. For, within these sacred jars are placed what is left of a life lived. Every joy and dream, every trial and tear that was shed, all contained within the dust of our existence. After all, what is man but the dust from which he was fashioned? Imbued with the glory of spirit, he is unique among the creatures of this earth. And yet, when amassed in his final properties, he is dust to be confined in one hand-held container.
         This, and much much more should prompt us to consider our most grand aspirations and schemes. Remember, no matter how great our achievements, we are but dust.
          But what dust indeed? What of heaven above impregnates this precious powder? How sublime could that be which we might scratch from the ground? And who is to say what lives we may tread upon each and every day? Indeed, all lives of dust are not contained in jars of honor.
          But if you will, consider that dust ensconced so lovingly. What great wonders repose within beautiful vessels? It is no less the product of great cities and civilizations and religions; it is one of medicine, invention, science, and genius. Taken from the lilting phrases of writer John Fiske, we ask. "Is this so precious dust the very end of all existence? Is our end nothing more than a bubble that burst? Are we but blocks stacked by some capricious builder, only to be cast down when the mood arises? Is our jar or flame or coffin the only epitaph left behind?" Consider these things.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2170807