Self discovery implies the existence of a self to discover—something clearer than metaphor, more concrete than abstraction. Yet when we press our inward eye against the pane of our being, we find ourselves gaping into the unknown, seeing only the dust of time and culture that has accumulated there like soot.
We wave our hands and fidget our fingers as we strive to express it, “It’s like a mustard seed …”, “It’s like a reflection …”, “It’s that place from which all experience …”, and it goes on. Almost always it is “like”, it is “as”, it is simile and metaphor. It never just is. And after so many years with my face pressed flat against that pane, I can’t seem to figure out where or what it is. So I’ve let go of trying to answer that age old question of, “Who am I?” I’ve let go even of the asking.
I am. Or at least I think I am. Whatever I is, however it happened, it’s here—And it just is.
Creation
You are already all
you have longed to be
close your eyes and breathe
trust in the rhythm of inspiration
The work is done
all that remains now
is the clear crisp waters of faith
on your sapling words
They sprouted when your soul was new
in dark brown soils where
confusion percolated down to nourish
tiny roots of sentience
Blind to all knowing they pushed
cracked open the earth and spread
tremulous shoots
glittering themes of light
What could be eons passed
bending with the sun
singing out to stars perhaps
long since vanished
All unwitting you kept
your garden safe from saws
that would plane your understanding
into signposts and billboards
A garden not unlike perhaps
the long ago Eden that once
rustled softly in morning winds
yearning to the step of creation
Now open your eyes
and behold strong green sprays
swaying over streams of time
they were always there
