A sprig or mint by the wayward brook; A nibble of birch in the wood; A summer day and love and a book, And I wouldn't be king if I could. John Vance Cheney
Monday, April 2, 2012
We speak of home. What is home for the diasporic? Are we not all on a diaspora? Spiritual beings on a physical diaspora. What home? We do not know the word. And if home is where the heart is, then let us tend to the heart and defend the "republic of the imagination." For without it, we are nothing but meaningless cogs in an accidental clockwork universe devoid of a higher consciousness than our own. And though some find this easy enough to believe, we would be extremely presumptuous to believe that we are the highest form of consciousness thus produced within a universe spanning billions of years and birthing untold numbers of stars, solar systems and galaxies; not to mention the potentially infinite number of other universes and bubbles of existence between the plains of pre-eternity to post-eternity. Or it could be that we are the crowning achievement in this sea of being and becoming. The microcosm to the macrocosm of the universe. Either way, we have not yet experienced but a drop of that which we are truly capable. Consciousness has so much room to grow within all of us. We should be fighting to learn about ourselves patiently everyday, over years, lifetimes, generations, and ages. We are such a young species; we are only the earliest blossoms of humanity's spring. Trees have been growing for 700 million years. Can you even imagine what a story that old would sound like? Do you think you would be able to hear it if it were being told everyday-every moment you spent outdoors? What if one day you wake up and find yourself able to hear the all sagas that are being told around you? And you begin to hear tales in the slow shuffle of your neighbor's crooked step. And jutting out like the veins in a leaf, you start to read the stories that the trees never tire of telling. And that tiny green shoot growing between a crack in the concrete becomes an epic [Homerian] narrative of hope, of struggle and grace in growth; a heroic celebration of life over prisons of stone. Can you imagine what would happen to you if you heard all these tales? Your ears might take on the sensitivity of a virgin's lips or a soldier's wound. You might rush to that insignificant plant and cry tears of elation over the marvel of its everyday growth through layers of rock and man-made sediment. "If you can grow between the layers of concrete, oh my green ancestor, then I too can grow a heart from these walls that my fathers and I have erected between ourselves and others who call this place home."
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