10 September 2009

 

"My God. It's Full of Stars"

I had opportunity this past weekend to lay in the near dark, no moon, and look up at the sky, and see more stars than I had seen since Mack and I were in the Oklahoma panhandle in the winter several years ago. The ability to realize one's own personal insignificance in the larger Universe was welcome.

The stars, galaxies, Universe, were all there in the night sky. I was there, supine on a bench of plastiwood, but not falling through to the center of the Earth.

What kind of higher purpose would I need? The stars, galaxies, were there where they are; the Earth was beneath me. Gravity was doing its thing in both departments. The waves were crashing onto the Florida panhandle in a semi-regular pattern not unlike my own breathing, the taking air in and out of my lungs in a semi-regular pattern not unlike waves crashing on the Gulf coast.

I don't dismiss my responsibilities to my fellow humans—starting with Mack, the one closest to me, the one to whom I owe so much; to my family who gave me so much over the years; to those who regularly give me resources in exchange for my attempting to show younger ones how to become effective engineers; to my communities of birth and of choice: those matter more to me than I can express in ways I'd hope you'd understand. But let no other human be so presumptive as to tell me they know what God/the Universe demands of me; what my "purpose" is in life.

The stars are where they are; my body does not fall into the ground; food and drink remain available; this one rejoices in being part of this.

I will stand in open defiance of anyone who attempts to shut down those who feel the need to express their percepts of the divine. But that is not for me. The divine is there in the stars; is there in the fact that my body doesn't fall into the earth; that the waves come to the shore again, and again, and again; that my breath, for now, goes in and out and in and out. But those miracles do not mean someone else gets to tell me, in a way that ultimately serves their purposes, of some Purpose to my life.

My purpose is what I make of it. Or fail to make of it.

It's my responsibility, not that of some California megaChurch preacher with numerous best sellers, not of some monk with a stick, not of those, of you, who feel so close to what I'm saying.

Breathe! It is a gift. Is it so hard to conceive of a gift with no giver? Or a giver who demands not fealty and obedience but joy and appreciation no different than that of a parent giving a child the best birthday present ever.

Massive love to one and all. It's really all we have to give each other. Enjoy it. Enjoy the stars. Enjoy the solid Earth under your feet. Enjoy every breath.

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Comments:
Thank you.
 
"Life doesn't come with a meaning. That's a user modification & voids the warranty."
 
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