I’ve been jostling around for days with the notion of writing a poem about life. Because life is kind of like poetry. There is an imbalance about it that always makes it imperfect. Yet the same imbalance is so distinct and pure…it ends up being perfect. People are grappling everyday with how we came to have life. Whether it is believing in a higher power…or science itself that is just so fascinating, there is a story about how our lives came to be…our lives.
I once read somewhere that ‘”More than 7 billion people experienced today differently. Can you Imagine 7 billion different days for yourself if you could even live them to begin with. Isn’t that just imperfectly perfect. It’s daunting to say the least. And those 7 billion different days happen every single day…All at once. It’s precious yet so fragile. We are in the world where we learn that in some years to come, there will be nothing left of us. How can this unrepeatable miracle ever go away…
But in as much as we sometimes need a pause to think about the direction we are taking, more often than not it has a mind of its own. And it goes faster or slower than you expect. And it makes you doubt its magic. Our guts are from life itself, which is all about hunches and taking chances.
Life is long and life is short. But not in that order. When we are born, we are put in little boxes and labels are slapped on them. But if we begin to notice these categories no longer fit us, maybe it will mean that we’ve finally arrived, just unpacking the boxes, making ourselves at home…Living.