a glove for a universe

tumbling dry 

turning, tumbling

in God’s hand
the universe is like a band
never out of harmony
plays an intricate symphony
of life and love and hope and stuff
we won’t comprehend
until the end
when we are sent
behind the stage
to unlock the cage
of mysteries and histories
which interrupted the trust
the feeling one must

be turning, tumbling

in God’s hand
like a grain of sand

with no significance

but be part of a whole
though with one brick missing in God’s home
there’d be a mighty hole

not just in the spiritual heart

but in the universe’s soul.

 ***

 

Recently, I have been reading an intriguing book written by Argentinian gestalt psychotherapist Jorge Bucay entitled "Let me tell you (a story)". The premise for this book are the sessions between a therapist and a young man undergoing this unusual therapy. Unusual, because the old man's therapy consists of telling the young man all kinds of stories.

 

It dawned on me that the best reflection is self-reflection within a story so far from one's reality, and yet so familiar...so close to one's heart. The power of a story to convey a simple thought, which triggers off a realization that goes beyond the depths of mere understanding. It is a tool to re-construct a broken soul. Of course, the soul requires attention from different sides, and not just one.

 

So, the mental coming to terms with what's wrong with your soul is probably a first step in the mending process. The human being is a being that cannot truly be without its soul intact. And for that one must constantly check all the rooms in one's bodily home.

 

There's an Indian saying, or rather an axiom that goes: "...everyone is a house with four rooms, a physical, a mental, an emotional, and a spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time but, unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person."        

 

With that in mind, we should be aware that there is a common link between these rooms. For me personally, creativity is the corridor that connects them all.

 

A simple example occured to me this morning, when I stepped out into the freezing, fresh cold outside. There was a new, thick layer of snow sticking together in front of the door and the driveway. I proceeded to grab the shovel and began to push, lift and throw the snow somewhere else. Shoveling snow is physical labour and with a repetitive movement, one's mind quickly wanders off...

 

First, it wandered off into the past where the child I was, was playing in the heaps of snow; building a snow man, making snow angels, preparing a snow ball arsenal, constructing an igloo etc. Memories flood in throw this mental room, like a gust of wind, and force open the emotional one.

 

Next, one finds oneself standing in that cluttered attic, full of things that form the emotional labyrinth of life...and all emotions depend on each other. They cling together, just like the snow. And, like snow, one can remove emotions...but they won't disappear until the sun makes them melt away. That is to say, one has to bridge over into another room...the cellar if you will, the place we are often afraid to go down to, because what we find there is the truth...and the truth is often the scarriest of things to encounter.

 

It begins to snow. The snowflakes are light and don't seem like they are falling. They too are engaged in an interplay of infinite paths on which they can travel in their short-lived presence. It almost appears as if God set them in motion, with a clear direction...but they could choose how to spend their time going there. These snowflakes dance, jump, fly, tumble, float through the air. Some even glide in the soft breeze going back up.

 

White stars that exist in their own world...i hold out my glove-covered hands...touching this ulterior galaxy and feel like the walls in my house are coming down and all rooms turn into just ONE BIG ROOM. Within that room, time and space vanish. I am in tune with the reality and the creativity i exist in. Just like one of those snow flakes, i feel at peace being set loose whence i came from.

 

i share this story, like Jorge Bucay shares his, not as a form of therapy, but simply because it is a story. and whatever you find within it belongs to you and it will be yours for as long as you hold on to it...just like the snowflake falling on my glove formed an infinite galaxy of creativity for a very short, finite instance.