A Snapshot While We’re Moving

Here, there and everywhere — all at once and little by little

There is movement inside the stillness, perpetual motion in particles and waves even as the force that temporarily propels sputters, coughs, runs out of metaphysical soul fuel on the great interstellar highway of life.

There are worlds with lightspeed highways, and worlds where access roads never got built. Ours is a world where respected scientists crunch numbers both madly and with precise focus, bent on going somewhere new before it gets here first. This world, the one we’re born into, is nowhere near where it used to be but still moves in reliably calculable patterns — let’s call that a miracle; let’s call that a gift.

Artists keep returning to drawing boards to capture or create that one authentic still life so perfect that it moves us without moving, a flower staying put, just so, never wilting, so that we, the onlookers, awestruck in our autonomic breathing, might find a way to keep growing, naturally, pleasurably, as effortlessly as possible, — time on our side, space in our souls, multitudes of unique heartbeats collectively attuned to the connective oneness of our kaleidoscopic variety.

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