Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

You've never been there.

April 12, 2017

 

Occasionally the Star Trek movie, "The Undiscovered Country," pops into my mind. I don't remember much about it, except that my dad loved it, so we'd watch it with him, and that its title is a reference to Hamlet with, of course, death in the role of the undiscovered country.(This is really neither here nor there, btw, just a bit of context for how my mind works).

 

Anyway, I was thinking about this in the garden yesterday, noticing that I was truly, blissfully happy in that moment, despite future obligations, when I realized I could not possibly have any idea what the future feels like. Like death, no one's ever been there, and no one can report back (for argument's sake, anyway). And while death will be discovered by all of us on this path, the future can never be. We cannot foresee it, we can only project some energy-draining idea of what that experience will entail. 

 

So why why why erect such a painstaking monument to this amorphous moment in time, a project that robs us of energy, of will, of resources, and which will never be pretty or sound or weight bearing because we have no idea what materials might be needed in this particular future? We have only the now. We have only the poetry of our bodies on earth and in space, and poetry isn't stone; it doesn't last. 

 

And that is the heart of its ability to move us. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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