Impermanence was…, no…., is… a presence that I know is now, that is understood as always here. But, something within still waits for it …, still craves it. As if it’s not happening …, as if it’s not what enables happening to be, to be… now.
Impermanence disrupts comfort to recreate it, calms chaos to redefine it, and actively initiates itself through such randomness that could ignite hope in even the most hopeless and melancholy souls.
Impermanence is what makes life itself a paradox and yet, it is what balances the paradox, holding us up, sustaining itself as us, as all that is, through a force without a name.
I sit here, writing about the lingering experience of subconsciously and mildly consciously waiting on impermanence to be. In a room within a home, all enclosed from the outside, and the outside being the world that exists on a rock called earth. This rock of earth floats in what we call space, and life exists on this rock. But, is it only this rock that life is?
I sit here writing about waiting on and even craving impermanence. Only to realize that the writing, the transition from one word to another, and the thought of each word, of each punctuation, of each emotion occurring, and of the experience of an existential dilemma and then centering, is all impermanence. Writing this, feeling this, happened as a millisecond of the swift and present eternity that impermanence is, always has been, and will forever be.
I sit here laughing with tears of joy because impermanence is always now, infinitely here as everything…, even this me that is WE because even I didn’t just fall out of a coconut tree.
Change is consistently holding our hands, never not us and everything that is.
And writing, well, as you can see, she provides a significantly soothing type of clarity.
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