Prodigal Poet: An Ecclectic Offering on God, Shakespeare, and the Beatles

Almost two months ago I had a dream that was both familiar and unusual.  Since my Grandpa Clyde (my mom's dad) passed away in November of 1998 I have occasionally dreamed of him.  In my dreams reality most always spills over.  In my dreams I realize that my grandpa is deceased yet somehow I am able to see him, hear him, touch him.  Most often I embrace him and begin weeping, for the joy of experiencing him one last time, for the pain of knowing that it cannot last.  These dreams are a comfort for me . . . sure, a bit painful as well, but mostly comforting.  These dreams seem so real to me at the time that I wake up feeling as though I have gotten another brief moment with my grandpa.    The dream two months ago was much the same; I saw him, knew that he had passed, laced my arms around him, and wept.  He looked at me and smiled, in that calm, gentle way he always did.  I said a few things to him but he never said a word, only ...

Sometimes it comes quietly. Sometimes it arrives violently. Sometimes it is met with shock and surprise; sometimes with long-held expectation. It is the culmination of life's every moment, every matter. It is feared; it is loathed, and occasionally, welcomed. Whatever it is, I don't think that it is the end. I don't mean to sound macabre, but death has been on my mind lately. It's not a subject I tend to spend hours upon hours thinking about. But my mind does naturally wander into the dark and dusty labyrinth of all things existential now and then. It's only human. With life, comes death. How can one avoid thoughts of it completely? While I certainly don't think it's healthy to dwell on the topic of death, I also do not think it healthy to never confront it either. It's one of those vastly complex subjects that has physical, spiritual, and philosophical importance. Death is different to everyone, on some level. For some, death is merely the ...