Why do we do this to ourselves, the promises of a forever when we know that we can’t know that, only believe?
There are artifacts of our yearnings everywhere. We get introduced to them at 5? 6? 7? At least by 8 we have all seen pyramids. And mummies. Sculptures and art. Maybe even gone to, attended or visited a church, a temple, a museum. Seen all the adults dressed in black. A casket or an urn. Seen one. Maybe even the hole in the ground and books being read out loud by men in “costumes.” And everyone is listening to them, but distracted. Seen the stained glass, the crosses, the stars. Adults again, looking up, pleading. Or looking down, and crying. Parents explaining with words and feeling, knowing that they aren’t really sure themselves. Their hopes are bleeding through a suspected truth…that it is just another story…like those three little pigs, or red riding hood, magic slippers, witches in a forested cabin or prince’s on horseback. Just stories…
We build a case for forever long before we know what it really means …and then we learn more and the case gets more facts, more beliefs, more stories. Evidence of something, but not forever. Of better stories, with more details. Embellishments. Characters with names unfamiliar. And some, so common. And always one that although not common, is heard, regularly, at least here in the west – Jesus. In the east, Buddha. Middle East, Mohammed. Other places, other names, regularly part of the stories who somehow become the spokespersons, the bards for forever. Of course they are dead, thousands of years ago.
Thousands, of, years, ago…
They sing his name, her names at these black events. In the places with stained glass. From books. Old books, thick books given their own stand in the middle of the hall. Gold edged paper and leather bound. Assurances of some unearned truth until by a collective reverence played out while kneeling, all around by especially the adults it’s made to be something more than the wolf, or the slippers and the mean sisters. And to belong we say yes, drink wine and make it ours, this staircase of belief in forever, and we climb.
These are worn steps. Rounded corners, and curved treads. These are old and almost polished. They’re made of stone. Reassuring. Heavy steps burdened by a form of worship that demands belief. Demands hope. And there are people in front, and behind you. No one is rushing but it is methodical. The motion is calculated, but barely. Step, up. Step, up. Perhaps walk over here. Lower your head, step down, low clearance, and then step up again. One more, look up. And then look down. Step again. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
This is not flow but it is motion. This is not water’s way. It is a chiseled approach, made of rock. Like a miner, underground possessed by the sheen of black, of gold, of the sky when the sun is overhead. Possessed by a memory, or the returns of the efforts made. The assurances of being paid, rewarded. Hope delivered. More chiseling, of steps for those behind. Courageous chiseling. Heroic. Beautiful steps in the dark. Barely lit but by a candle. Candle lit. One and thousands in this darkness. And everyone going in the same direction. No one coming back, returning. Maybe an echo. But no one actually coming from where the steps lead. At least this is the experience for the living.
Photos are passed backwards from those ahead. This is what I have left you. Or a painting. They are looked at and then passed backwards, to others, strangers who never heard the ones in the photos laugh. Or burp. Or yell. Or sing. Just images.
Fuck. Dead is dead. These steps are someone else’s. My feet. I say where they go, or where they don’t. Waking up, I visit the forest, unpathed. Just wild grasses. Sand washed clean from the night’s high tide. My footsteps. Naked, I dive in and swim. These waters. This is life. Living. Alive. Under a blue sky or one filled with stars. Floating, hearing the waves, feeling the motion, my skin. Smelling the smoke and the roses. The oranges and the jasmine.
I choose the waters, and where it goes, its flow. It’s “yes” to right now.
Keep your books and gold and coal and slippers and cookies and poisoned apples. Nice reading, but not living.
Thank you for these waters. They calm me, heal me and live me. Now I am on my knees, and bowing. A tear falls and joins the waters. We are one and that’s all that matters.
