Thursday, June 9, 2016

true story of this sweet tragic

But the best imaginers are the old and wounded,
who swim through ever narrowing choices,
dedicating their hearts to peace, a stray cat,
a bowl of homemade vegetable soup,
or red Mountain Ash berries in the snow.
--Freya Manfred, "Imagine This"

I was thinking to myself one day, as I sat in the subway car: will I stop attacking life with all the emotional force of a hurricane when I am older? Life seems to be happening to me, sometimes, more than I am happening to it. Is this always going to be the case? 

Does life ever settle down into what Ms. Austen calls a quick succession of busy nothings. It does not feel that way at all right now. Right now it feels like being swept away by one giant wave after another, crashing into the beach again and again.

Will one day, I simply approach life without imagination or desire, but simply the contentedness of what is? Will, one day, the intensity of emotion and feelings that life is so rife with, subside?

But it doesn't seem like it ought to. Freya Manfred's lovely poem suggests otherwise. 

That the older we get, perhaps there is a certain whirlwind element of life that ceases--perhaps not. Perhaps life will always feel like it is some piecemeal whirlwind spinning under our thumbs. 

There is a certain focus that will emerge, maybe, as we swim through narrowing choices. But we can still live in Nepal and New York, no reason not to. And if we marry a millionaire or a clown, we can still be falling in love with the reality that presents itself to our vision.

I see no reason to believe that I must one day cease to fall in love with each day as it attacks me with its unexpected and surprising stories.

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