I was reading Meg Hitchcock’s blog yesterday. I stumbled upon her blog through my wife, who has been following her for a while now. Anyway, I was reading something she wrote a couple of years ago, about destruction, and it struck a chord with me. She’s a fine writer and an amazing artist, keenly observant and intelligent and quite mad. I was smitten.
So feared, that. The loss of the thing we believe we need. For happiness, for safety, for keeping things the same. But without destruction there can be no renewal, no room for growth, for what is trying to be born.
What Meg said was that we need to begin seeing destruction not as the end of a thing, but as a needed first step in the birth of something new.
It’s obvious, I suppose. 
Like a lot of obvious things, it’s easier to articulate than to embody.
I love destruction myself. Okay, that’s not quite accurate. I am fascinated by it, that’s closer to the truth. It thrills and terrifies me, both.
And I suppose it’s because I know that I’m not immune from it. I will be disarticulated and disassembled in the end, turned into worm food, all my precious thoughts and tender longings. My fierce heart stilled.
That day is waiting out there, who knows how near or far.
In the meantime, I yet live and love. All the more wildly for having to lose it. 
It don’t seem fair, but it does seem fitting.