Lately I have become aware that life does not consist of a number of static snap shots.
Then why this need to take a snapshot of each moment? To pinpoint it in time and mount it behind glass, carefully labeled? Is it the way the brain naturally works or have we been taught to categorise and store through our channels of communication, language, symbols, literature, photography, film?
For example, take my present moment:Emotion: Apprehension
Place:In Front of F's Computer.
Activity:Blogging.
Companions:Wolf-dogs.
Curtains:F's Grandmothers.
Year:2008.
Day:Thursday.
Month:November.
Season:Summer.
Yet, within the same moment I also feel joy at the shape of a leaf. In addition, my position can bedescribed as next-to-the-comfortable-chair-in-some-unknown-dimension-of-time. And my companions? Do I label them as fluffy monsters or wise sages?
How does the need to create static images of time rob each moment of its fluidity and endless possibilities? How would our worlds change if we imagined our minds as weather systems rather than filing cabinets?
In our weather system each drop of water vapor transforms itself in an never ending cycle across the globe. Each gust of wind results from changes in pressure, influenced by the shifting heat and cold of the equator and the poles. These are in turn influenced by the tilt of the earth towards the sun. The nature of each vapor drop's dance with endlessly rising and subsiding air currents is further facilitated by warm and cold ocean currents and countlessly different terrain characteristics.
How could my current state of mind be seen as a moving, fluid, confused jumble of systems working in perfect harmony to transcend each moment?
In this moment I feel panic at being woken up by a phone call. The police. At my gate. Wanting a statement. Loosing my lawyer's phone number means having to wait for someone to phone me back. I fear that all might not be ok. I trust that it might.
I become aware of the warmth of my toes right at the tips of my thin olive slippers. A upwelling of affection rush through my heart at the creak of a dog basket.
Each cell in my body responds to cycling hormones, feelings of apprehension and trust, the sun slipping past rainclouds, practiced surrender, the wish to be outside, the wish to disappear into myself, the wish to rise above myself. A hungry stomach. Fantasies of crispy potato fried with egg. I dream of freedom from fear. I surrender to fear. Memories of yesterday's walk and the smell of wild-grasses on fur fill my mind. Outside the wind encourages leaves to fly free of their stems. Summer's green is everywhere. Wet blue clouds come and go.
I follow the journey of a fly across a window. Its wings constantly shift between gray and gold and all the shades in between. The same window is filled by a huge white cloud. Blue-gray with rain and sparkling white reflections of sunlight. My weather system shifts and changes. Its pattern are endlessly unpredictable.
ps. Sometimes, not always, just sometimes, shouting at the dogs, followed by a crying bout in the corner of the bathroom with an orange towel over one's head, does a lot more for ones general morale than a whole lot of weather analysis.
