I presume that most people would understand journeys to have a beginning and an end. You start somewhere and you end somewhere. You may not reflect on its goal or meaning or even realize particularly clearly that you are on a journey but that doesn't, I should think, change its nature.
Yesterday an old friend was sharing with me about a number of her closest friends and family. These folks are all in their later 70's and into mid-80's and all are ill in one way or another. Some have become suddenly ill: an unrecognized cancer, a heart problem, a hip that has gone awry and so on and some are lingering on. One friend in particular has just been diagnosed with both lung cancer and a blood clot - both totally unexpected. This lady is in her mid 80's and is about to undergo treatment which involves chemo and the removal of the toes on one foot (the damage done by the blood clot). Okay, you get the point. These are serious and life-threatening problems.
But my question about the journey - in this case - the journey of a life is; when do you stop trying to stay alive when your body seems to be telling you that it 'wants' to shut down? Have we become so good at keeping ourselves alive even when just about everything in your body is indicating a desire to retire that facing the reality of the end of the journey, accepting it and letting go, becomes increasingly difficult?
Most of us I suspect don't think about death. It seems morbid. It seems to belong to someone else. It seems to interfere with getting on with life. But isn't it real? Isn't it assured?
I think that until the 20th century death was such a common companion that people - perhaps - saw it more realistically than we do. It was much more in your face for them for sure: children died young, mothers died of childbirth, people died of epidemics. I wonder if they were less frightened by it? I wonder if we could learn something from them? I wonder if we would live differently if we came to live at peace with death?
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