She is going to find herself
when she is meant to find herself.
In the wrong or in the right place.
In this space or in the next.
Today or tomorrow.
Tomorrow is drowning drunk in love,
In the things she cannot understand,
But there will always be
something happening to her,
and something will always be changing her.
Something to bring herself closer to herself.
She will continue, she will endure and grow.
And the way she will see the world
will be nothing more, but a reflection
And all at once, the search will be beautiful.
The birth of a flower is one to remember,
the moment we all pay attention to her bloom.
– R. M. Drake
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
– Pablo Neruda, Keeping Quiet
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing, there is is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other” doesn’t make sense anymore.
If only we could find this place.
*picture courtesy of GaryPepperGirl