Consider the Swallow
We wake up each morning to discover ourselves — and perhaps it’s important for me to remember that I don’t need a plan. Still, I cannot help that I woke up this morning (after yesterday) plotting my words like footsteps.
This. This is what it is to be human; and part of my humanity has always been a pleaser. That said, it’s only natural that I shoot to plot perfect joy in my words today — because I want to please you. I’m telling you this because this is the new me. The honest me. This. This is what’s happening. This is what it is to be human, and honest.
Did I shoot for perfect joy in this journal when I knew I was my only reader? The answer is obvious.
I could stay safe, like I’ve done a million times before — or, I could play in this threshold unafraid. I could keep words raw, as they hiss in my inner-ear. I can let them tumble out my pen like falling leaves. Like they did before — when I was the only reader.
It’s a learning process, and I’ll get to the place where I stop caring, won’t I? That is, after all, the point.
I take a deep breath to stay gentle, and I walk outside to the terrace. Above, the Swallows pirouette in-air.
Below, there are men doing laps in the community pool. I watch one man in particular from above. He has a very thick, tanned, fuzzy Middle-Eastern torso that tattles on his diet. I watch his arms flop through the water like dolphin wings — with grace and roughness at the same time. I see it from up here, from the watch tower, and I wonder if he knows it about himself.
We wake up each morning to discover each other.
What if we dusted off every feeling, every sensation, with awe — as if it were an artifact from beyond? A clue? A piece of the puzzle that answers where we came from and where we are going?
It’s easy to do when I keep to myself…but now, but now…
I woke up to discover that my words get smushed by my own pressure. The pressure that tells me every word that falls from this pen must be worth gold…but do artists care about that? Where is the me from yesterday who invoked the artist?
Another part takes over today, and I have no choice but to welcome her — because this is what it is to be human; a guest house. Just like Rumi said. (Did he write those words knowing they would be read?)
We wake up each morning to discover ourselves in each other.
Last night in my dream, I considered tattooing infinity between my brows. Considered. Isn’t that ironic? Not only because of yesterday’s photo, but because I have been considering my words my whole life.
[I look up to the sky.]
Have you ever seen a Swallow fly?
Does the Swallow consider its air-dives?
Or, perhaps the real question is: do we really want to know infinity?
The Swallow does.