We Go On

September 13, 2011 Candace Morris 13 Comments

It strikes me as weird and wonderful, this life.  Truly worth digging up and examining, worms and silt and the nasty bits stuck under fingernails.  In any one lifetime, a human can be innumerable amounts of people.  My elderly grandfather is a bachelor again, dating and learning to do dishes.  My sister is confounded by the completely different student and person she is in graduate school as compared to undergrad.  My marriage is not the same marriage it was 5 years ago.  My toddling niece will never know herself as she exists right now.

 We often wish to be someone else, and we are continually granted that wish.
Over and over.   

I am thankful today, deeply thankful for that which is in constant renewal and evolution.  For reinvention, for second chances, for the gluing together of broken overnights to fresh and perky new mornings.  For old thoughts growing into new thoughts.  For the old me, for the current me, for the future mes. For that amphibious DNA which can grow a new tail.

I am still pissed that nothing at all is permanent, bound by the paradox of fighting for grounding and centeredness in a blurry merry-go-round planet.  I have to force myself not only to sit still, but also to remain in motion.  I cannot let moss grow over my complacent soul, and yet I have to learn to be in the Now.  

I feel the passage of the seasons and it's all I can do to grab one little flower as I speed on down the road.

It's all,
We know,
That's left,
To hold.

We go on and on.

And that, my dears, is the reason I record.
The reason I notice.
The reason I take your picture and write you letters.
All we have are remnants of our various lives, tokens and knick-knacks and chipped tea cups to offer a glimpse into the person we used to be, from where and from whom we came.  That person is as dear to me as the woman typing right now.  I never want to lose her.

I am nothing but a grain of sand.
I am all of the universe's stars.
All housed in one cerebral cortex.

It's making me dizzy.

The final mystery is oneself.  When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself.  Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?
--oscar wilde--

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