Life and Death

Last night I watched American Songbook on PBS. I was again deeply touched by Paul Robeson slumped against a dockpost by the Mississipi, summing up a bone weary lament with the refrain, "I'm tired of living, but scared of dying."
We deal so efficiently with the fear of death by focusing our attention elsewhere. When death does manage to get in our face, we may be willing to put our earthly affairs in order for the benefit of our heirs, but we put off any reckoning that may be required of us until another day. It's a handy self-deception with consequences we all complain of daily -- busyness that robs us of joy.
Though I've always sought to account for my soul, more often I have lived the deconstructionist life of a brain ticking in a body with God as the clockmaker who winds us up and leaves us to wind down on a timetable only He knows. Consequently I've tried hard to stay wound up, fearing to remove my hand from the key that locks me in place.
What freedom there is to remove my hand from that key. In the existentialist view, I can do merely that and let whatever will be, be. Or, I can go further. I can yank the key from the keyhole to my being and toss it to God. My ticking ceases and I begin to match my breath with His, my steps with His. This is prayer, and it is a whole body experience, often expressed as a dance with God.
I imagine this dance. Raising a torchlight above my head, I lose the shadow of myself as I illuminate the path ahead and move toward that light. Taking in breath, I test new ways to move, stretch forth my leg, point my toe, place my foot down lightly with purpose, shift my weight over my leg and find balance. I reach out my arms and link my fingers to the strong fingers of One who tugs me into a new positon and whispers in my ear, "See what you can do?"
With a touch, my soul lover helps me find my balance. Like a pas de deux partner, or a yoga master, He closes strong hands around my wrists as if to say, "I've got you now, I'm with you."
When we've worn out our bodies with the business of life, when we finally tire of ticking off the days of earthly existence, is there a dancer inside us to be gotten?
At the end of Paul's song in Show Boat his people, who have gathered around him in sympathy, turn toward the river and wave a greeting to the boat coming that is coming by. And that, perhaps, is the choice.