I had a thought the other day that I have been mulling over and trying to make sense of - really, trying to understand the weight of it.
We are here on loan.
We have one shot at this life. One chance to live through this one life that we have been given, for we certainly didn't make it happen ourselves. We were born into a certain situation, in a certain time, surrounded by certain people and immersed in a particular reality - all of which we had no say in (to our knowledge at least).
This life is unique. It will never happen again. Nothing we experience will ever happen again in exactly that way. Even the unique vantage point we bring to a situation or experience is uniquely had by us.
The materials that make up our bodies have been circulating the universe for who knows how long. The basic atoms and elements that have come together to give us a physical manifestation are the same stuff that the rest of the universe is made of, just put together differently. When we die, whenever that may be (an it remains a mystery, for we are guaranteed nothing here), those elements and energies will return back to the universe, dispersed until they are called for their next assignment.
We have one life. One shot at that life. Hell, we have one shot at any given moment. Each moment will pass, and when it is gone we will never experience anything exactly like it again.
So, what are we to do? I am not exactly sure. I think taking this next step, journeying out to South Dakota, is part of my way of saying "I don't know - but I am willing to try and find out."
A new acquaintance (and one day hopefully an old friend), might lend some assistance.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
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