February 21st, 2010 by Hoopleton

I feel the rain. And the sun. And the moon. I feel the snow on my face. I feel the wind against my back and the dead leaves under my bare feet. I feel the grass and the trees rising around me. The clouds parting. The lightening coil with an explosion of terrible harmony writhing against the heavens.

These things are hardly immaterial. They are untoward signs of rejuvenation. Or is it reconstitution? Perhaps birthing. It doesn’t matter, our language is too imperfect, but back on point, it’s a beginning most definite.

I am only slowed by my uncertainty. I still have no real notion of what a man is, the examples I’m allotted are mostly defective. Broken and violent. Bestial. Carnal. Ferine. What has made them this way? Flawed design or illicit tampering? And in this equation what is my sum total? Am I the aberration?

Because I can feel?

Because I am overwhelmed by feeling?

Because the feelings that overwhelm me are too much?

Too much for my body?

Too much for my soul?

Too much for my spirit to repress, reverse or revile?

Because I love?

Because I am loved?

Because I have love?

Because we have everything to hope for?

Because we have meaning?

Because we as a single jarring atom have a greater meaning than the soft rhythm of a bouncing, gyrating, whirling string of energy.

And since all that has passed will come again and again I feel the replete wholeness of all that was and everything that may be. Forever. Into the sliding dark. And the sun. And the moon. And the organic entirety of celestial habitation. Choirs of angels. An orchestra of resplendent green, living agony. Until the stars rupture and only radioactive dust lingers within the cathedral gates.

Not, mind you, that I am at all closer to knowing what a man should be or to what a man ever was, but I’d like to think that gender is as meaningless as any word, the Word, spoken by any prophet or god or profiteering preacher that ever walked the Earth. And only in this do I find the certainty to let go of all my burdens. To feel. To laugh. To cry. To be the animal capable of grace, of place, of self-awareness.

To be this, as I am, as we are, this is rejuvenation. The prodigious incarnation of creation. The spark of life. The totality of genesis. Lingering for always. Right up till the falling, collapsing, foundering of the bright blue sky.