Tuesday, September 09, 2014
fun finding flowers
Thinking of Wally, who has ALS, but doesn’t know I know. Earlier today, before I knew, I responded to an unrelated news article by him, after he sent me his e-mail address in reply to my query to his paper. This was before I googled to find more articles by him about Asheville, NC (since I, too, grew up in the Old South); and found him taking care to ensure that others will carry on, November, 2011. So, at least three years after his knowing he had ALS, he’s still writing!—enthusiastically. Maybe it’s common that deterioration is slow, so I shouldn’t be surprised…. Recalling also Stephen Hawking and a fluttering eye.
I hope I live many more years, of course. But the meaning of life is directly about the time I have and love, especially because persons dear to me chose to end their lives in suicide—and also because aging increasingly faces me (or anyone) with the event of others in one’s world dying in old age, facing me more and more with inevitability of demise. “Duh,” you say, yet what’s worthwhile to say?
I’m amazed by very elderly persons who love each day as if they’ve got years ahead. Maybe they do! (Bioscience may make dreams come true.) I joke that, in old age, I’ll wake each day gladly surprised, as if: “Hey! Still here!”
I have that now, however long I have: to love this day, also in part honoring the intrinsic value of dear ones who didn’t find a good enough way.
What’s to be said about believing there’s no ultimate meaning to life?
It is, perhaps, that “you” are mistaken: Life is to flourish. There is ultimacy because there’s intelligent life, thus possibility of gaining ultimate appreciation. Life may find ultimacy in furthering Our potential or trusting the brights who do. Ultimate findings can be understood purposefully.
We are, I feel, to celebrate the flourishing that goes on and that will go on thanks to us. The fragile elderly laugh to see their great grandchildren scampering around as if they’re immortal. “Yes! You are immortal,” for your play is immortal, reincarnated immortally.
Our play of bright life is immortal—all flowering. Children are children Of the archetypal Inner Child that is intrinsic to everyone, especially in our love of creativity. Happiness without children of one’s biological own may still be happiness with our children—or with no children in one’s life, as one’s ownmost Play expresses authentic happiness, without as well as with the scampering and Absolute Beginnings, so fun to entertain amid so much that’s fun and joyous to entertain.
Imagination, as such, is immortal, as we build on each other’s mortality immortally. Life after death is one’s legacy living on!
The joy we’ve instilled, the Good we’ve instituted, the cultivation of humanity through intimates, kindreds, and furthered solidarity lives on.
Artistry of living spans generations. Our flourishing is immortal.
So, I love the day. I love my lucidity. I love what I can still do.
I’m thankful for the day.
So, at heart, maybe, we’re love of flourishing—others’ as our own and our own with others, in others—unlike the gigantic trees reaching for sky in lives spanning many human generations.
We are the bright flourishing in love of our nature. We embody and express immortal intelligence of Earth.
It’s a love of discovery that lets us reach for life at other planets. Here’s the path of our ultimacy: To find that we were long ago found and left to find in good time those who await other worlds’ evolving to find Them, the gods of patience. Our destiny is to connect when the time has arrived to be found.
So, too, in the day, in solidarities, in creating kindredness, in cultivating intimacy.
Thank goodness, the promise of It all is beyond our imagination. Yet, Our flourishing gives the promise its potential for surprising joys.
Our evolving is a singularity that no other planet can have resembled. In the cosmos, They let us grow our own way, like we—the brightest among us—let species flourish. The galactic They are like a Nabokov thrilled by a new kind of butterfly, yet letting us go our own way.
It’s the way of the galaxy, I think: to let flourish and enjoy ongoingness—to trust that flourishing holds dear remembrance, making history sacred for further cultivations, more gardening!
Seeds of text and memory grow skies for newbies’ reach. We make solidarities sacred as tradition. Ancestry can be sacred legacy.
Our intimacy becomes shared memory that does die with us,
yet we so lived!
We live to find fun and flower, as all grows and leaves.
