How funny we are, we medium-sized mammals who share the attributes we’ve designated to ourselves as defining us.
A distant relation of the cotton plant, we worry our little worries, jobs and survival, birthday parties. A nervous little dog, teeth stuck in a dream we can’t shake loose.
How important they are, these weighty trifles. On the decayed fringe of an explosion that never noticed, we consider these quite ordinary.
We resolve from nothing, eagerly peering out from our link in this organism that stretches back to mud, that we call mother or father, son or daughter, death, or dinner, or a dozen roses. Then we fade back into its roots, nourish those who jostle after us, until they too become static.
And we find space, every point, every perspective, always there, all the time, even unobserved.
We find time, always before, always after, past gently drawing future over the slippery fulcrum of now.
We find size, larger or smaller, never small, never large, limitless scale in infinite resolution.
We find beauty in chaos, rarely perceived but there all the same. Impossible to regard from every aspect, at every time, or any time.
But we try, one body flourishing from the next, filled as soon as created, to flourish in turn with egg or bud, clone, or babe. Teeming, witness without limit, still we do not experience all.
But we try, each gorging on our tiny portion of the whole. And oh, how we cherish ours, and those who follow cherish theirs. The shadows we cast throwing in turn their own dim shadows and textures.
Until, at last, the tendrils wither, shut fast on those who crowd forth.
Then none will follow.
But the rains will follow, at many times, in many places.
I live reluctantly in Southern California where I alternately celebrate and dread the slow but constant change that becomes so much more pronounced in my life the older I get. My family includes my wife, who is my light and my storm, and my new daughter, who continues to surprise me daily with both her existence and her ability to stretch my capacity for love, and for terror, into previously unimagined territory. I occasionally garden, which I’ve learned to treat as a study in controlled chaos, only without the control. So, my life, like most, is generally full of hopes and dreams, successes and failures, aspirations, trial and error, peeves, inspiration, ignoring of mortality, doing stuff, not doing stuff, and occasionally standing in the backyard gobbling radish pods off the bush with my very excited toddler. A pebble on a beach with billions of other pebbles. Sometimes I write.