“I must go in.
The fog is rising.”
These are Emily Dickinson’s enigmatic last words.
What might be your last words?
Of course, we cannot even begin to guess what we might see/hear/feel in that in-between place, that bardo between life and death.
For now, we can only be aware of the between places as they happen in daily life. The between of awake and asleep. The between of asleep and awake. How mindful can you be of the transition?
Today is foggy all morning. The trees, the gardens are indistinct. All delineation is softened. Where does one thing end and another begin?
Where do you end? Where do you begin?