Burying a Bone

Whatever its origin, I am part of this universe, however it may have been, or may be, scientifically and imaginatively defined. I feel neither significant nor insignificant in the face of this seeming immensity. I am not small. I am not large. I am as much star as I am snail or stone. I do not fear the unknown. I am part of the unknown. I do not believe in a religious afterlife. When this particular vessel is broken and its dream is dispersed, other combinations will be formed. The dream may become flesh. The vessel may become rainbow, butterfly, and road. My presence here is not the beginning or end. I outgrow my skin, again and again. I wash off the dead cells, and they become something else, and are consumed by the soil. A lifetime of this — and where is it now, the skin of my childhood? It is in the universe. It is in the leaves and the twigs drinking up the light and the dark on our old farm. I do not need the promise of being preserved as myself in an imagined future paradise in order to live love now, or to feel joy, or to act kindly and responsibly. I require no assurance of ultimate freedom or nirvana. If the universe is perfect, then I, being part of it, am perfect too. If the universe is not perfect, then I am imperfect too. But I feel no need to judge it so. And if I am dumb, I am dumb. Take me out. Wag my tail. I will be your happy hound.

October 25, 2019

Burying a Bone

On our walk past the old graveyard,
my dog stops to bury a bone. Looking on,
I wonder what Jesus would have done.
Smiled, probably. Good dog.
Good dog.

Songs and Letters, February 27, 2007
Another Song I Know, Cosmopsis Books, 2007

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