Each me is different from one moment to the next. I am built upon the me's that have come before. I am built upon the experiences that I have had, and that I have imagined. I will not be this me tomorrow. What remains to be seen, to be known is whether or not I will be a better me. Will I reach for the stars? OR will I allow the earthly struggles of the things around be pull me into the darkness? What will I be tomorrow, or the next day, or next year? Someone once told me that I had changed too much. I laughed. Of course I had. But I was aware. She had too. But she was unaware. She did not see the transience of each moment, of each self. For her, each moment was the same as the one before. And none held the magic inherent in change.
From this moment on, I will stop counting cars that fly through the intersection below my window, I will cut my fingernails more often, I will eat more lemon drops. From this moment on, you will be my accomplice, we will caramelize the hours and dawdle over every third minute, we will wear foxgloves on our fingers. From this moment on, you will sleep in my pouch, my marsupial pocket, you will fold yourself up and climb in, hybernating to piped-in Prokofiev. From this moment on, no calamity, no misdirected allegiance. We will shimmy and shine, no one will stop our ecstatic taxonomy. I am pregnant with you, you are pregnant with me, from this moment on.
There are no moments, nor minutes nor calendar. All are necessary constructions of a desperate mind, desperate to organize and control this whirling, unfathomable universe swallowing us whole. From the belly of this whale my tiny person is but a drop of dew, a child's lost tooth, the cough of a flea. Ego must be a familiar invention, a device to keep a face in the mirror, a voice in the wilderness. And what would happen if upon peering into the mirror the face looking back was someone unknown, not you, not me, a face from a book unread? Would it take a moment forward from this moment for the soul inside the flesh to adjust, to accept, to become one with the skin and bones of yet another reincarnation? For me, I will swim placidly in the belly of this Orca, remembering the beach, the storms, those pelicans flying just above the jetty. We, the whale, bird, seal and me, we are the ocean.
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Each me is different from one moment to the next. I am built upon the me's that have come before. I am built upon the experiences that I have had, and that I have imagined. I will not be this me tomorrow. What remains to be seen, to be known is whether or not I will be a better me. Will I reach for the stars? OR will I allow the earthly struggles of the things around be pull me into the darkness? What will I be tomorrow, or the next day, or next year?
Someone once told me that I had changed too much. I laughed. Of course I had. But I was aware. She had too. But she was unaware. She did not see the transience of each moment, of each self. For her, each moment was the same as the one before. And none held the magic inherent in change.
This week's post posted at http://blog.raikay.com/2011/02/from-this-moment-on.html
From this moment on, I will stop counting
cars that fly through the intersection below
my window, I will cut my fingernails more often,
I will eat more lemon drops. From this moment on,
you will be my accomplice, we will caramelize
the hours and dawdle over every third minute,
we will wear foxgloves on our fingers.
From this moment on, you will sleep
in my pouch, my marsupial pocket,
you will fold yourself up and climb in,
hybernating to piped-in Prokofiev.
From this moment on, no calamity,
no misdirected allegiance. We will shimmy
and shine, no one will stop our ecstatic
taxonomy. I am pregnant with you,
you are pregnant with me, from this moment on.
There are no moments, nor minutes nor calendar. All are necessary constructions of a desperate mind, desperate to organize and control this whirling, unfathomable universe swallowing us whole. From the belly of this whale my tiny person is but a drop of dew, a child's lost tooth, the cough of a flea. Ego must be a familiar invention, a device to keep a face in the mirror, a voice in the wilderness. And what would happen if upon peering into the mirror the face looking back was someone unknown, not you, not me, a face from a book unread? Would it take a moment forward from this moment for the soul inside the flesh to adjust, to accept, to become one with the skin and bones of yet another reincarnation? For me, I will swim placidly in the belly of this Orca, remembering the beach, the storms, those pelicans flying just above the jetty. We, the whale, bird, seal and me, we are the ocean.
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