Mutual belongings

How do we know another person? How do we introduce ourselves that the other may know us?

I phrase it this way for self absorption is rampant. It is easier to touch as it is closest to our deepest desires. To be known. To belong.

Do we introduce our garments that may or may not define the handlebars of identity our images cling to? Do they point to a certain kind of man or woman, a character? It is as though we gossip about ourselves or show the theatre characters of ourselves. I am a woman, nature lover, writer. This is my history – traveling, gardening, etc. Do any of these point to something of my essence? How can these activities capture me? What do you do is a common first question here in the US. What I do is not who I am. It is akin to describing sunlight coming through the trees or the dewdrop. Maybe these extension chords are the best ways we connect with each other.

Are we truly so unknowable?

Maybe light is best appreciated through prisms: Light through the birch leaves and the light catching on the golden hair of a child or a dapple on the sprinkling water hose on the garden. Maybe our capacity to receive us in its full magnificence undifferentiated, all encompassing, unmitigated, undefined is just not there. To be naked, to be stark is too much. We need curves, shadows, intonations, murmurs of hints. Perhaps, the straightness of a bamboo forest escapes us. Instead we follow only the trail of falling leaves or the scent of the dry summer. Perhaps it is enough to touch the hem of the dress and get lost in a dream.

Are we that complicated? In the mire of complexity, I like to think that there is utter simplicity. The warmth of the first morning light on one’s skin does not need to be explained. The sound of rocks crunching as one walks is as clear as the tears falling on one’s cheeks or the gurgle of laughter escaping one’s throat.

When we pause in mechanizing people in our lives as functional pegs that do or not do for us, then we glimpse, not just a whisper hidden so long between the syllables. We dare stray away from the edges of shadow and light. We take a chance to inhale their scent, so unlike anything we’ve imagined. Their delicate wings, embroidered with lace like patterns of life lived touches our wings, hardened by the muscles of experience and seasons of unbelieving.

And perhaps, in the pregnancy of that moment, the moonlight has a chance to peer into the treetops of our mutual belongings.

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