Sacrifice

There is a moment, when you throw away the stones to pick up the jewels, during which you hold nothing. At this time you look at your hands, you turn them around, seeing them for the first time; you study their contours like waves roll over shells on the beach. Sacrifice is a death and a birth: what is lost cannot be denied its value, but if it is mourned the gift retreats into its purity. Some think the gods want us to throw victims in volcanoes; some that we should make ourselves bleed or hunger or retreat. Some think it is their duty to die in the name of freedom, justice or fidelity. When we sacrifice we understand more about what these things are but when we have selfish motives we’re only beating the words with a shovel. There is a special room perhaps that God keeps all things sacrificed. Some think that in heaven they’ll go into this room and all that they gave will be inside. Those that sacrificed know, however, that it is a room full of flowers. Their thoughts, words and actions appear here in supreme colours. Sacrifice is the digging of fingers into soil to make holes for seeds. The seeds will never be themselves again, but that doesn’t matter.