Not being deft, things often
drop. Fails often droop.
Thousands of ants on the
sidewalk. One small piece
of sidewalk in the middle of
a big city. Unseen by all, they
were very busy. With. Whatever.
Important work they were doing.
Too many to count; and each ant
made up of millions and millions
of cells. Like barbell cells. Like
lemonade and mystery. The world
was way too big for me.
Each ant had a tiny brain and each
brain was made up of countless
more cells. They had lives, and
will, and preferences too. These
ant. Had. Eyes. They felt. Fear.
And here they were, digging
tunnels and eating the bits of
food that had been left on the
sidewalks. I should disallow
nothing : all things are.
So, knowing nothing, I thought to
myself: who was I to even assume
to say who or what 'God' is?
Knowing nothing of a single cell
in a single ant, I should claim to
know which God is the right God
and which one was the wrong God,
and how many and how to reach?
And teach and worship and behave
as well? To stimulate some difference
between a Heaven and a Hell?
I, then would claim to know - Who
made the universe and how and when?
But in truth I knew nothing : from the
tips of my fingers to my eyes and the ants.
If I knew not that, than how would I
make grand pronouncements about the
rest of it all? How could I say, and
believe I was right? So presumptuous
to make a claim for knowing,.
Rimbaud said 'I is another.' Then maybe
I should just step back and see and be
quiet. An inkling, ever dim, that there
was something to have an inkling of.