Keep Moving, Potato

This morning I walked a few paces outdoors, right after I got out of bed. I scared myself pale and sick last night, and I struggled to sleep afterward. So this morning when I woke up I felt grateful to be alive, and wanted to savor how this feels. I went out to get the morning sun on my skin, to feel the cold on my face. I saw fine dew drops on the short, new grass and on the clover beneath the blood orange tree. Tiny birds sang, flock entirely invisible among the oleander. Granite stones, almond orchard, soil, hay, sky, eucalyptus. Witnessing all of this dulls the edge of a terror that mere thinking hones. There have been times when I've scared myself in this way, been utterly certain of imminent death. I have to remember that we are all doomed anyways, and that I can sit here at all to fear means not only that I'm still alive, but that if my time is indeed so short as I believe it is – and it will be short however long this form endures, I don't doubt – then I would do better spending my time feeling other than fear of the inevitable. 

We have this brief gift of here-and-gone. Some people get keen and sure on what to do with themselves, and they have grand plans for making the world a better place, and they get busy. Their ingenuity makes a difference. I was not developed to be so clever, but still I would leave a positive impression and with that gentle pressure steer the hearts and minds of the world towards a unity that I sometimes sense; an understanding that I think, in the long run, will do this planet the most good.

I have tried many times to begin, but I can't start the process for anyone. We only ever start from the middle, from where we're at. I can't make excuses for why I didn't start sooner, why I didn't improve sooner. Neither can I tell you where I am going or intend to be, as though I could predict even my own future with any clarity or presume that my direction wouldn't change along the way. I know myself and the flow of this life too well for that, and its lack of rigidity – essential malleability and my own adaptability - is part of the gift. Reflecting on my failures just now, I grew nauseous. But I see too how they have given me the wisdom that has made me kinder, more connected, and I can think of no higher calling for myself than the realization of this connection. And I don't know how to share that connection with you but to tell you that the space between us is as much an illusion as is the existence of our atoms – mostly space, and what little matters we can't even pin down but with imperfect observation. We are this cosmic sludge, a soup in which the eyes of this potato see that hunk of carrot and say, “but I am unique!”

And maybe we are, just not for long. The best we can do is discover how to be the tastiest potato we can be.