DEATH
A
sleeping cocoon metamorphoses into a beautiful butterfly.
Death is merely the transformation from one state of consciousness to
another. Energy can neither be
created nor destroyed. It is simply
a constant that adjusts to different dimensions.
Mary C. Philpott has written one of the most beautiful pieces of prose which encapsulates this concept.
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and the sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: “There, she’s gone.”
Gone
where? Gone from my sight, that is all. She is just as large in mast and
hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load
of living freight to the place of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her, and just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There, she’s gone," there are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes.”