How would God respond to making a mistake? Would planets collide or mountains slide into the sea? Or would the ledger of all life simply remain out kilter until a series of small events forced that ledger back into balance again? It's probably the l...
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today, February 1st
Hello February. You are short and sometimes sweet.
Since we last spoke, my dear one, I've been wondering about many things but I keep coming back to what it might be like to fall from the blue (blue) sky. If that was happening to you, my dear, would you rather look up or look down? I mean if that's the last choice you have in life, what would it be? Would you rather look at the sky and see the unknown or look at the Earth and long to know it better? Or maybe there's a third choice? Is it possible (in that moment) that you could get lost in thought and forget what's awaiting you? If it was me, I think I might forget where I am. Or at least I hope I would. But maybe chance would sneak up beside me and determine my fate. Maybe a random gust of wind would flip me over and over and force me to look either up or look down.
Chance can be such a cruel friend, you know. Crueler than a lover who spares you the pain of telling you that your love is no longer wanted. That's an awful thought, now, isn't it? And yet, cruel may not be the best word to describe that kind of pain. Uncaring is probably a better choice. But that's chance for you. It's nothing more than flipping a coin. And a coin doesn't care about anything. It can be a head or it can be a tail. But it doesn't have to be a bad thing either. Just think about the universe and all the particles and specks of space bouncing off of each other. It's absolutely uncaring, but all that randomness also creates inexpressible beauty.
A while back, I read that scientists had figured out that putting together all the color in the universe would make the center look mint green. Mint green! Imagine the intoxicating aroma in the center of that universe. It doesn't matter that a little while later, those same scientists said they were wrong about the color and that it was actually beige (and not mint green). It didn't matter because it still meant that beauty was being pulled together from randomness. Just think of a sandy beach. Beige and beautiful.
And if that's true, it makes you wonder what else is possible if you string together a zillion different random events. For example, there's a theory that an infinite number of monkeys could be seated in front of an infinite number of typewriters and eventually produce all the works of Shakespeare. They call it the Million Monkeys Theory. I guess it's possible but who really knows?
Am I boring you, my dear one? I hope not.
Every thought today feels like an unconnected tangent veering off into space. But I guess I'm just nervous.
You see, I'm trying very hard to make my words seem as natural as possible to you. Engaging even. Compelling, if that's not too big a stretch. I guess, in my own way, I want to impress you. To make you think that I'm smarter than I really am. And yet, here you are. Every day. Still here. Still in bed. Still with your eyes closed. Still never speaking a word to me. Maybe you're dreaming. Maybe you're even dreaming of the million monkeys. Sweet creatures, I think, because they do what they can to keep the universe in order. But like everyone else, sometimes they fail.
(We all make mistakes, you know.)
The story I am about to tell you today has a single mistake. Well, that's not true. It's more like one million mistakes because all the monkeys made the same mistake at the same time. If that hadn't happened, everything would have fit together perfectly. I dream of that day – the day where all the pieces of the puzzle fall in line and fit together perfectly, but that won't happen now. Definitely not.
So, hello again, February. You are short, often sweet, but always unpredictable. Whenever I look at the calendar, I think February will inevitably be dark and bleak, but then the universe surprises me with a day that's utterly unexpected. From time to time, Spring even happens in February. The air rolls up from the south on buttery waves and fills the world with hope. It shocks me into believing that the universe has loved me all along.
So, my dear (dear) one, you are my anchor and I am your guide (flawed as ever),
