But if we are afraid of our own truth, who will harness the power of our momentary infinity; who will cradle this truth and sing it awake?
We cling to a bar of solid smoke, dangling between existing and not-existing blissfully unaware of the precarious height from which we sow our dreams and grow our hope. Chuang Tzu understood, maybe we are butterflies dreaming our human existence. And this candle, this single, solitary wavering flame marks our existence, an audacity against a wind created to blow it out. We are weaving the garment of our life with borrowed thread, to create something that will be comfortable enough to lay upon this cold floor space we fight to keep. Unraveling as we go, we are pulling threads together trying ceaselessly to save it from falling apart. Are we gods? We command this vessel of clay not to crack, it cannot crack, it will not crack. How long can we cocoon fragility within fragility asking from both protection against destruction?
So, what now? What happens when we pull from our pockets our truths and litter the ground upon which our feet upon knives step? Will they cause a tear on a white page? Will they rip this paper with their ragged edges? How are we to carry the flame of our existence in this house of wool and keep it from burning? Sisters of Ariel, we gave up our voice to walk the earth. We are trading in suffering, buying broken pieces of clay, discarded pieces of thread to mend the holes in our reality.
Is this our Hail-Mary-full-of-Grace? Is our momentary infinity the eternal agony of dangling over the darkness? Are we gods? Are we butterflies? Or are we a spool of wool, knitting a scarf to wrap around this clay jar to keep it from shattering. Maybe we are all of these: the truth with the sharp edges and its cradle; the voice that sings it awake. If all we have is this momentary infinity, if all we are is a flame in the wind, a dream of a butterfly, a question to a god, then perhaps… perhaps. Perhaps we can be a possibility birthed at dawn. Perhaps we can be a hundred bursts of colour on a spool of wool. Perhaps we can be a dream of angels and a voice thrust into air, destined to sit upon a cloud.
And if our truth, our ragged, uneven, mismatched truth, cuts the flesh of a virgin sheet, let the tears run down that ours may find company. Let our weaving unravel and pool at our feet as we do at sunset. Let this dream be a wavering mark carved into the bark of eternity that we may remember that this clay existed. Let us throw our kisses in the air, let them fly on our hopes of tomorrow, maybe someone will wish upon them. We shall wrap our knit rainbows around the darkness of our being and be colour in our world of shadow. When finally, the bar upon which we dangle releases us, we will not fall, we will float upon our flying kisses, upon our dreams, our tattered pages, our flickering flames into the clarity of what is yet unknown.