Leisha There is something deeply human about pretending we are exempt from the rhythm we see everywhere else.
The trees do not protest autumn. The river does not argue with the ocean. The soil does not panic when something falls into it and begins to break down. Everything participates.
Life generates.
Life degenerates.
Life regenerates.
The pattern is not hidden. It is obvious. And yet we spend so much energy trying to step outside it.
There is a quiet relief in accepting that we are not here to conquer the cycle. We are here to move through it, to contribute to it, to be shaped by it.
When you stop trying to outsmart death, life becomes less frantic. There is less urgency to accumulate and more desire to enrich. The question shifts from “How long can I hold on to this?” to “How deeply can I inhabit it?”
Limits, when faced honestly, sharpen experience. They make colors richer. Conversations matter more. Laughter feels less guarded. Humor appears in unexpected places because nothing has to be performed or preserved forever.
Trying to defeat mortality disconnects us from the web. It makes us rigid. It narrows perspective. But stepping into nature’s rhythm widens it. You begin to see yourself as part of a larger continuity, not separate from it.
Meaning does not grow from chasing immortality. It grows from participation, from adding structure to the soil while you are here, from strengthening the field for those who come after.
There is something almost playful about accepting this. It allows imagination to open. It allows gratitude to feel genuine. It allows belonging.
We are not outside the system looking in.
We are inside it, cycling with it.
And there is a strange kind of peace in that.
