I sit beside my withering lavender bush. The stems droop, bowing in a final display of devotion - to me and to the world. Even death bears beauty. It offers a quiet reminder of the contingency of life: both an end and a new beginning - the circular rhythm of all Being.
When I die, I hope that my body nurtures new life. I hope that the bees’ legs grow heavy with clumps of orange pollen.
Yet sometimes, the contingency of Being scares me. I glance at this lavender bush now and then, my thoughts drifting back to a time when that very bush thrived. Pastel purples and the familiar aroma are no more. The lavender tempts us with the illusion of an innate essence. But what is mine? Maybe Sartre was right: “existence precedes essence” - yet the dizziness of freedom haunts me.
