Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Number Ninety

Every soul is a witness.  We see at first our own life, where we can be the elemental observer without thought or emotion.  We witness through a cloud of feeling and cognition, but it obscures the simple river of experience, the flow of what can be seen and heard and touched.  We collect -- images, events, stories.  We hold, individually and collectively, light touching the Tigris at a wide bend, the feeling of wet clay spinning on the first flywheel, the sound of wind susurrant through an ancient corn field.

Every soul is a witness.  First for the self, and then for the other.  The other needs to be seen; the love and pain mirrored, known.  The soul is incomplete, untouched, its work caught in the limits of the "I" -- without a witness.

The witness sees every fall, every getting up -- deepening what's real because there's more than one of us who carries it.

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