This laboring of ours with all that remains undone, as if still bound to it, is like the lumbering gate of the swan.
And then our dying - releasing ourselves from the very ground on which we stood -
is like the way he hesitantly lowers himself
into the water. it gently receives him and gladly yielding, flows back beneath him,
as wave follows wave, while he, now wholly serene and sure, with regal composure,
allows himself to glide.
- Joanna Macy, A Year with Rilke
Bird of Passage H.C.Love
