playing with these dusty apples…

Every time I start looking through my old poems, I cry. There was so much of me in that older stuff. The more I write, I find, the more I recycle the same ol’ stuff. One idea connects to another, until they all become a single, unified theory, full of imperfections. I often argue that the imperfections are the best of us; the pearl of life; the very measurement of perfection.

I am probably wrong. I see, in my early writing, the evidence of my naivete. I looked for a meaning, I searched for something out there, to explain me, right here. Not God, necessarily; God seemed too broad and imperfect in and of itself. The theory, I mean. So, I began to de-generalize the idea of a Creator, or Divine Being. I started to make God(s) an individual experience, by being very curious about each single person’s own expressions and thoughts on the subject. This has led to a search nearly infinite in scope and rife with imagination.

I realized that all of our meanings are different, that we can each only learn and share, in turn, with each other. It occurred to me then, and many times, since, that the search for truth can only lead to each other. That we may fill in our own blanks only by looking through the eyes of others. Each new perspective has led to a greater understanding of something (and even the little somethings count), just as each person I have met (and, even not met) has taught me about all of it.

Because I look at life backward (just ask anyone who’s ever played chess against me), I know also, that I have taught them, whatever it was I was put here to do. I guess that’s the real beauty of it. All I can do, is keep looking.