Death -- one of the biggies, dontcha know -- came calling today in the person of a woman on the other end of the telephone line.
She was interested in finding someone willing to join in an ecumenical discussion of death planned by her group on some future date.
I helped her out as best I could, saying simply that I don't do 'ecumenical' and not saying that I no longer get off on spiritual hug-festivals in which dissecting the obvious can go on for hours.
If someone asks me, then we can talk as one dead person to another. Nothing wrong with fearing death as far as I can figure out.
But weaving baskets is for crazy people ... or used to be. Why weave baskets when there's nothing anyone could possibly put in it?