Dust is one of those dead words. It’s a dried up word that begs for water. Dust makes me think of inhaled talcum powder, of finely crushed saltines in the mouth, of following behind another vehicle on a dirt road, of the Dust Bowl, the desert, a dry, dead, barren, easily-blown-away place.
To know that I am a fashioned-dust being is somewhat unsettling. It reminds me that in the end, I am dead. I am a bit of powdered talcum. Short-lived in the scheme of things. I, along with the rest of humanity, am of one formation—dust.
I can dress my dust-doomed body in stylish clothes, groom my dust-doomed hair into an attractive style, and color my dust-doomed face with a flattering palette; but ultimately, my final dressed and groomed color will be ashen.
So my reflective question for the day is “What are the matters of concern for a person created of dust?”