Thursday, August 17, 2006
Rambling in Emily Dickinson Mode
[Warning! What follows is an Emily Dickinson inspired philosophical ramble on themes religion is supposed to address. It is stated at the top of this blog that some posts here would entertain such subjects. However, since I know that many people are terribly allergic to both philosophical and religious discussion and break out in nervous tics and brain rash at the mere thought, I thought it prudent to give the reader fair warning up front...]
The emptiness of space between the stars is thicker than soup compared to what we know about what makes it all go around and around with such intricate finality.
When I was a child and saw the motes of dust dancing in sunlight beams sneaking through the blinds to shine upon my bed, my mind was filled with wonder – I imagined I was seeing worlds uncounted.
Life is full of pain and, if there’s a cure, we sure as death haven’t found it yet.
Some say, “The answer is right in front of you, as plain as the nose on your face – a flower opening between each breath…” It could be, I guess, I won’t deny it out of hand in any case, but still and yet, can there be an answer when we rarely hear the Question posed by life itself:
When all is said and done and all has gone to dust – did anything ever really happen?
[my ramble changes now changes to Emily Dickinson mode…]
When I died, I thought I heard someone cry
and I thought – “Why?”
and then – “Who is this who cries for me?”
Then suddenly I realized that it was me.
But still, I wondered – “Why should I cry
and why these tears in my eyes?”
The setting sun leaves no light and it seems vain
that we should rage against the night!
Will the Question be answered with Silence?
Will angels lift me in choirs?
Will demons come to drag me down to eternal pain?
Is Eternity an “Emptiness filled with Joy”?
[back to (almost) normal mode]
When I decided long ago to accept whatever comes as it comes – was I kidding myself? I wonder.
Indeed, for what is it that I cry?
Is it for things left behind, for that which comes or for that which can never be?
Perhaps I am afraid that I will forget the taste of life.
Without that taste, all will fade and surely love itself will surely fade.
Without love of what value being?
Awareness would then be empty and a total lack of meaning must needs ensue.
The love of being aware is the pinpoint upon which all life turns and towards which all sentience yearns.