Human beings are pattern-seeking creatures. We expect events all to happen for a reason.
Even when there is no pattern, our brains will create one— thus: myths, religions, fairy tales and conspiracy theories.
Humans in general, and in the West especially, desire and require explanations.
Just because we want or think we need an explanation, just because we believe we are deserving, does not oblige a deity, the universe, or anyone else to provide it.
When a sudden and inexplicable event happens— something big like an earthquake, hurricane, or tsunami, like war, political corruption or climate change, why waste time looking for a reason?
Instead, accept that it happened, and figure out how best to adapt.
Or, even better, create your own sudden, inexplicable event to get things back on track.
There is no burrow deep enough to avoid making a few enemies.
People don’t like it when one points out they’ve been swindled, so they keep their heads in the sand while the swindle keeps growing, and they starve for morsels that sustain their unsustainable philosophy.
Fears of not getting into the privileged club of prolonged asphyxiation— folks fearing their God-given right to look down on another class of people—
slipping away.
Hiding in their boxes of what they already believe, cardboard boxes soaking in the rain.
Lying to themselves: “This will protect me.”
Their idea of science: a mountain of scripture and gangs of saints.
Why are so many swayed by unlikely virgin births, improbable resurrections, and implausible rebirths,
rather than by observable, verifiable, and replicable physics, chemistry, and biology?
As he writes, the eastern edge of the storm blurs the horizon.
Does that render the map inaccurate?
Poems are maps maps of past joys and hardships maps of futures and dreams
Like makers of topographical maps writers describe specific territory at a precise moment, Maps are snapshots frozen in time, influenced by climate and culture, colored by politics and beliefs.
Maps change, as natural and unnatural forces work to sculpt, rework and reshape the landscape.
Beautiful as they are, maps may not be accurate representations of reality, but, rather blueprints of what could have been, should have been, what might yet happen…or not.
In times of reckoning, some try to restore what was, but change is inevitable.
When old maps no longer reflect reality, it is time to re-explore the territory, time to revise, redraw or create new maps.
As he writes, the storm has passed. In the west, clear blue sky highlights new horizons.
We rise from the primordium, into the bubbles we call our bodies— fragile, imperfect shells in which we carry our souls through this reality, oblivious to the immensity of the truth.
Thinking we reside in our hearts and our heads, but without heart, head, teeth, and toenails, we are so much more.
Mom and Dad think he is shy— timid, antisocial, perhaps a bit retarded.
It never happens when it’s just Grandpa, the uncles, and Auntie Jay.
Not when there is deliberate, meaningful discussion. Not when there is civilized conversation. Not when there are pauses between sentences, and even a few occasional contemplative silences.
Later, when the rest of the crowd arrives— the energetic ones, the siblings, neighbors, workmates, cousins—
trivialities become topics. Conversation becomes competitive.
Interruptions. Escalating volume. Everyone talking at once. Talking over, around, and through each other. Talking so fast they steal all the oxygen.
Gossip, false compliments, small talk— the chattering, chittering frenzy. Excruciating. Punishing. Suffocating.
Babbling, blathering chitchat overwhelms his reason, driving him frantic until he feels compelled to withdraw deep into his inner shell—into the inner calm accompanied by the vacant stare that scares the muggles.
Even better: creep under the table. Crawl away unnoticed into the darkness.
Yes! Escape into the dark.
Escape to the crepuscular crawl space beneath the kitchen sink, to the somber dimness of the basement, or— best yet—sneak out the back door, run fast past the garage, skip down the uneven steps, and arrive, lungs burning, panting, heart pounding, in the chill obscurity of
the abandoned coal room. That wonderful, windowless space, enveloped by musty, mossy, soot-blackened brick.
Dark. Safe. Secure. Silent.
The old coal room is like being in a castle surrounded by a moat filled with murky water and hungry crocodiles, towers protected by watchful gargoyles, battlements patrolled by dragons breathing fire, portcullis grates lowered, drawbridges raised.
Escaping into a dark, quiet place, retreating to quiet and calm— joyously alone.
Breathing. Relaxing. Unwinding in the darkness. Regrouping. Soon, refreshed, recharged, and ready to reintegrate when they eventually find him.
Desert Dweller 