It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.
Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.
It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrow seats
all through the tedious denouement
to the unsurprising end- riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.
~~ Robyn Sarah ~~
“I am only a ferryman and it is my task to take people across this river. I
have taken thousands of people across and to all of them my river has
been nothing but a hindrance on their journey. They have travelled for
money and business, to weddings and on pilgrimages; the river has
been in their way and the ferryman was there to take them quickly
across the obstacle. However, amongst the thousands there have been
a few, four or five, to whom the river was not an obstacle. They have
heard its voice and listened to it, and the river has become holy to them,
as it has to me. “Have you also learned that secret from the river; that
there is no such thing as time?” That the river is everywhere at the same
time, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the
current, in the ocean and in the mountains, everywhere and that the
present only exists for it, not the shadow of the past nor the shadow of
~ From ‘Siddhartha’ by Herman Hesse
Begin. Keep on beginning. Nibble on everything. Take a hike. Teach yourself to whistle. Lie. The older you get the more they’ll want your stories. Make them up. Talk to stones. Short-out electric fences. Swim with the sea turtle into the moon. Learn how to die. Eat moonshine pie. Drink wild geranium tea. Run naked in the rain. Everything that happens will happen and none of us will be safe from it. Pull up anchors. Sit close to the god of night. Lie still in a stream and breathe the water. Climb to the top of the highest tree until you come to the branch where the blue heron sleeps. Eat poems for breakfast. Wear them on your forehead. Lick the mountain’s bare shoulder. Measure the color of days around your mother’s death. Put your hands over your face and listen to what they tell you.
~~ Ellen Kort ~~