No matter the self-conceited importance of our labors we are all compost for worlds we cannot yet imagine. - David Whyte

But then we always knew heaven would be a desperate place. Everything you desired coming in one fearful moment to greet you.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation. The kettle is singing even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots have left their arrogant aloofness and seen the good in you at last. All the birds and creatures of the world are unutterably themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

The room is still quite cold when the list of achievements is read but the atmosphere quickens when you hear what they loved, what they held in their affections…you realize what you learn you have lost [in someone dying] is you’ve lose what they loved and everything else is like chafe blown away.