on being anyway

At birth, we’re set loose in our dreams and visions and doings, bringing the world into being alongside myriad other beings and anew every day, whether we know it or not, whether we want to or not, whether we care.

It’s a recipe for perfect disaster and bliss, for the bone-deep ache of separation, the gut-fiery wounds of connection, the ever-retreating infinity of which we know next to nothing. And nothing for any whit of it but to fall in and be anyway, while here. From the window of a train, making its way into a lonely night with all souls aboard traveling thus, I spied these trees and remembered them as my kin.