Time, the slow speed

beetleLately, I have found myself at a crossroad – no form of nirvana here, but a heavy dose of peace with what has become a general loss of hope that we humans will solve the problems we have created.  I am not the first nor will I be the last to come to this liberating yet sobering sense of hopelessness. Many have written about leaving the path of cherished faith and where a life of service sometimes leads: to the end.

I will soon be 37. I am not who or what I wanted to be. My hands do good things, at times. I write. I pick up trash. I garden and take care of rescued cats. I love others, care for others as best I can. I work for the land, but I cannot save it.  Still, I do what I think is the ‘right’ thing to do for the sake of doing it. I carry no false pretenses that I save anything. Life carries itself. It’s not dependant on me. Breathing breathes.

I don’t wonder about the ways in which my life and the life of those I love, including the land around me, will end. There are theories on a myriad of endings. There is debate – a hot ooze of conversation – whirling in the lines. Are we the cause of so many extinctions? Can we use technology to create an escape hatch for ourselves? Can we


linear time or reinvent flesh into pixels?

I don’t know. This is not of interest to me. I have come to the place where working the keyboard into love letters is enough. I have come to the time when making dinner is enough. The cats are here. My love is home. The night comes … and comes again.

I sometimes wonder, as per most of us, what my purpose is – as if being a human means scurrying to find great meaning in being alive. The picture above is one I took. The beetle was dead before I arrived. The flower I picked… dead from my hand before the snap of light glazed essence to stillness.

More of us come into being every day, to live on the curved space of everything… to breathe the last breath of the one who goes ahead.

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