~ I am so tired of waiting,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?~
On never arriving,
we are never arriving, and the good of the world is never in our hands.
Nor is it in the hands of anyone else.
Everyone all together doing what we do.
Another way of saying it, is that the good of the world is always in your hands, of course it is… Where else?
And yet how to grasp it, invisible, impossible, intangible.
So many people, everyone’s hands.
Approach is the determining factor. Perception being the bulk of our possessions.
Possession translating into what we become. The thoughts that possess us.
The time we give them.
No good is ever wasted. I do believe that.*
I went out last night and danced my little booty off to to the Jazz that is still very much alive in this tiny city of overlapping lives and dreams.
Earlier in the day I did a couple of readings in the back of a nail salon for the women doing mani-pedi’s. No Astrology, I just looked at hands, and listened to the people in front of me, all the information arriving at the right time, in order to speak and listen. Such a privilege to be trusted with the knowledge of what someone most would like to know, I felt lucky, and I was lucky.
There doesn’t seem to be any final destination, and that is the thing I wish I had known as a child, and even as an adult, younger than I am now.
I really did think, for a time, that you fell in love and got married and made babies, if you could, or if you wanted them, and that all the rest happened around you, that these things, life things, would take care of themselves, if you were in love and your heart was true. Do the best you can, then one day you would look up, and it would be your grandchild’s high school graduation and just a little while later, you would hold hands with the one you loved the most and slip into death, which at that moment, was your right, that you had earned, as hard as it was to leave.
How could I not know?
How could I not know the impossibility of correctly assessing and measuring all that life throws at us, of navigating the wilderness we actually are?**
How could I be innocent of the challenges, when life had never been innocent to me?
When I had grown up, not in the world of my imagination, but in the real world, rich with difficult tragedy, obscene and unexpected, inexplicable transformation, not always for the better. Sourness seeping into to those who seemed so nice, or perhaps seeping out? How was I to know?
Or how could I not?
It’s a good question and one with no answer at all.
I’m a dreamer?
I had no parental guidance to speak of, none that taught me about life except by watching them live it, and trying to avoid their particular pain.
Is that common?
It seems to be.
I will say this, the longer I live the more I am aware that it is by trying too little that we fail, failure by imagining that we need the answers before we live the questions.
By giving up halfway, by expecting life to do it’s part if we have done ours.
In my experience life asks for more each time. A real Rumpelstiltskin!
And when it tips the cards to help you, the knife edge of what could have happened is so thin, you don’t know whether to be grateful, (of course you are!) so grateful, or to curse what you have become, while living so close to annihilation.
On never arriving,
Is it alright that we are always becoming that we never arrive?
That we are never able to say: HERE. THIS.
Is it alright if we are a bittersweet amalgamation of fragments? Is it fine that any absolute we have arrived at can be summarily humbled and defiled, because there is always an element outside of our understanding? Because people will never be symbols, will never be completed, will remain impervious to simplification, a decoupage of effects, sparklers lighting the night and burning your child’s hand, an ear grown in a science lab, created someday to actually hear music so impossibly divine, an unparalleled intimacy, a song composed by strangers you would never like, much less love and played by people even stranger still! Fragments of light and energy moving, colliding, bringing multiplicity. In each human, a universe, inside infinite multiverses, a series of constant chemical interactions creating sickness, health, inspiration, hope, and death.
It has to be. Breathe, move and then move again. Those things that stop are dead.
*And when trying cuts our lives short, often there is someone to begin our work again after we are gone.
**Is it just the arrogance of youth to assume that people do things badly, perhaps because they are weak in ways we imagine we never will be?