The wind is tossing the tree branches outside my window. I don’t have to stir from my couch to welcome them into my world–as they are welcoming me into theirs.
Birds darting across my field of vision come and go before I can even think of placing them in any known place. As they pass through my field of vision, I feel open to whatever else may arise there.
What about the man sitting on this couch? Is he also a being of flight who can come and go without needing permission to be just as he is?
I call the one sitting on the couch “I”. There is no mistaking him for anyone else presently in this room. Although there is a chihuahua in a brown sweater resting next to him on the couch.
Is the one I call “I” or “me” (depending on whether I am doing or being done unto) like the small birds that were in the courtyard outside my window a moment ago?
The one I call “I” can stay in one spot for hours, but his mind is full of thoughts that fly hither and yon, often with no abiding objective.
Constructing the previous sentence, I quite forgot about the birds. They’re lucky they aren’t counting on my holding them in mind in order to have a life with errands to run and castles to build. My thoughts are not so fortunate. They arrive and disappear and sometimes are never heard from again.
The one I call “I” may wonder what to call himself, but he is grateful to be alive and able to experience life in this world without end. Perhaps this world will end, along with my kind, but at least I won’t be here to know about it.
Looking out the window again, I don’t see any birds. Perhaps, like rays of light that can be viewed as either waves or particles, my looking changes what shows up to be seen.
The branches are still tossing in the lively breeze blowing through the neighborhood and I am confident that the birds will return soon enough. The wind is not strong enough to ground them for more than a few minutes.
This living planet will keep spinning through time and space, whether or not my kind learns to care for it as the only home we have.
Like a horse tossing its mane at the edge of a meadow, Mother Earth is running through the cosmos, as every living creature on board holds on for their dear life.