Jan 18

Day follows night and night follows day. I’ve watched the Pleiades rise in the heavens, and seen the leaves fall off the trees in annual succession, without fail, all my life. Tonight it is cold and still outside. Silent. And in that silence and dark and cold, so close to death I wonder if my life is something that I’ve created or if it is something that I’ve acted out. Am I writing the script or reading it? Do I have free-will, or is my life predetermined for me? I suppose that life is what we make of it. Certainly, it seems that the choices we enact in life are entirely of our own devising. But are they really? Things happen, as they say. There are times when life comes into our careful day to day world and interrupts it with matters that are inconvenient and perhaps more dramatic than that. At these times, we decide how we react and that is a sort of control, a way of working with the cosmos to determine how events will be played out within it.

I’ve always liked the word ‘weird’ which, in its original meaning, meant ‘fate’. One’s weird is one’s fate, and the extra and common meaning the word has acquired colors our concepts of fate. Fate is strange, destiny bestows upon us a trasnformative alchemy which, when we work with its processes consciously and presently, results in the miraculous phenomenon we know as life.

We’re alive. That is the great Mystery, the great miracle-anything else is ancillary, is a description of the event and not the event itself.

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