let it be, let it be, whispered words of wisdom

Lately, it seems I am hearing the same message from several different sources: Let it be.
Reverend Billy wrote it in the letter I received a week or so ago. Specifically, his message was: In order for there to be new life, there must be death.
At the time, I had just become a Great-Aunt for the tenth time. His message seemed to tell me to let the dead rest and to enjoy those who are living.
Odd, but that was the message that leapt at me from the silver screen late last October. I was watching "Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil", brought back to the Lucas Theatre for a return engagement after its premiere there in 1997. The voodoo woman is admonishing the reporter: "Don't commune so much with the dead that you lose sight of the living." I felt like she was directly talking to me.
Had I been doing that? In the two weeks of October which preceded this viewing, there were two deaths of people dear to me. My outlaw-cousin David met death by his own hand; my colleague Mark had essentially done the same thing, driving while too tired. Together, they made the personal death total climb to six last year.
After the movie, I decided I needed to look at the personal births total, to see how much new life family and friends had given to me. THREE!!!! And two more babies would be born in early 2014!!!
As it turned out, the little boy decided to arrive in December as a Christmas gift. The little girl came right on time last month... and was joined by the early arrival of another great-niece that I didn't even know was coming! That was pretty amazing. The coincidence of the the numbers was pretty amazing, too.
What other sources have been pushing me from the dead?
Well, I would have to look back and look around, because I know I made some notes...
Then, there's today.
I had driven to Statesboro for the official ceremony of granting a charter to the new Gamma Delta chapter of Alpha Chi Sigma. You know, that professional fraternity in which I am a Brother for Life? Well, today I was part of the Extraordinary Session of the Grand Chapter of Alpha Chi Sigma, complete with official gavel to open and close the session! Seriously!!!
Anywho, as usual, I somehow got the time wrong and ended up being two hours early. I kid you not. Fortunately, the site was right across the street from the library. Again, I kid you not.
What better free place to hang out in than a library? So, that's what I did, wandering around for a bit, admiring that model ship and that one, too... and found myself looking at two rocking chairs in a reading room. Cool beans! I would get something light to pass the time, rocking away while reading. What to read?

Well, as good fortune would have it, there was a bookshelf of paperback classics right outside the door of the room with the rocking chairs. How very convenient! And, look at that, a book of short stories! What great luck! I wasn't familiar with the author, but, after reading the book jacket, I decided to give it a shot. A quick scan of the titles in the table of contents cinched the deal.
"Ripe Figs" was the first tale I read. Being only one page in length, I thought it would let me know right away if I should get another book. Nope, this one would do just fine! Now, on to the story with the title which really caught my attention: "The Dream of An Hour". I just like the sound of it, you know?
Good choice. It actually sent a shiver down my mental spine.
Here's the set-up: a young woman is told that her husband has died in a train wreck. After bursting into sobs, she goes to her room, to sit and sob away from others and to contemplate her future.
Here's the excerpt:
... But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a mean intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
Whoa... had I not spoken of that imposing of wills on more than one occasion with my husband? Had I not told him several times of his predisposition to subjugate my will to his? Not that he was an ogre; he assuredly was not. Partly, the fault was certainly mine, as it was easier to take care of the household myself than to try to get him to help do so - as in, to subjugate his will. Right? Such is the case with so many married (or attached) women I know.
Now that I am divorced, my will is my own. I can do, or not do, whatever I wish, whenever I wish. I can choose.
Perhaps the end of the story is what prompted this reflection. You see, she finally relents to leave her room and accompanies her sister downstairs... just as her very-much-still-alive husband comes through the front door... and she collapses from a fatal heart attack. Those present said the joy of seeing him not dead is what killed her.
Those folks didn't know that the death of her dream was the cause of her demise. The author, Kate Chopin, was perhaps pointing at her own life, widowed at a young age, with six children. Perhaps.
All I know is the end of the story came as a shock to me.
Time to keep living and to commune with the living.