Hatching Light

A thin ribbon of morning light streaks into the cabin hitting me on my bare chest. I watch it illuminate previously invisible dust particles floating softly in the room.  They transform in front of me into a universe of stars and galaxies orbiting around each other, twinkling…and I’m the lucky giant looking in from outside the universe.  What civilizations are living on planets orbiting these specks of dust, and do they know about each other?  Do they know about me?  As the boat rocks and the water gently laps at the hull, this ribbon of light moves up and down rhythmically, changing which galaxies are in the spotlight, and the slight breeze swirls them into waves and whirlpools in the air. 

Added to this morning’s spectacle are two, ever-rising symphonies of steam from the bowl of oatmeal with honey, and the cup of jasmine green tea next to me on these blue sailboat-themed couch cushions.  I don’t see the steam until, 6 inches from my eyes, it reaches the ribbon of light coming through the main hatch, and at that point it lights up brilliantly, twisting and turning like smoke. As I look closer I can start to see the individual drops of water that make up the whole, bright little bubbles of water floating up, like a reverse water fall. Though there are millions they seem to have choreographed this moment perfectly to create a dance of order in the randomness, each following behind the other as the choreographer directs this wisp over there, and that wisp to flip inside-out and twist under, then through the middle, thicker one. 

I imagine these droplets get the same satisfaction that a dance group gets when they perfectly deliver a never-before-seen routine. How do they know how to stick together? What keeps them unified in their freedom? They remind me of a flock of a thousand birds, little black silhouettes, flowing in and out of each other between an urban skyline, or a school of glittery fish morphing their collective form to create a hole wherever a hungry shark tries to dart. This collective mind, it makes sense for the bird or fish, it serves a function of protection and maybe teamwork when it comes to finding food, but for the drops, for the steam, what is the purpose? What is the evolutionary advantage? These water droplets don’t have the responsibility of reproducing. Their longevity is inherent, they are immortal. Rising into the air, forming clouds, condensing, falling back to the earth where they flow through rivers either to end in my pot of tea or the ocean once again. They have no worries, no responsibilities and yet, they still spend their time creating the most elaborate works of art the eye has beheld. It makes me wonder…What is the choreographer? Is there one bird or drop that moved up the ranks like a first violinist and become the leader? How are decisions made? Especially when there are a thousand tiny decisions per second. It takes us humans ten uncertain minutes sometimes just to decide where we are going to eat tonight or which movie we are going to watch. And then, many times, once the decision is made, we still question it during and after the event is over, letting it form into a regret if we feel we have made the wrong choice. What makes these smaller, so-called less intelligent life forms so unified, and here we are glitching over small things which turns into frustration and regret? Does our complexity have some side-effect that pulls us from a deeper connective force? And do we have the ability to “dance” like the birds or the drops without a choreographer and months of practice?

I ponder all these things still laying on the couch of my sailboat in the early morning.

Cabo is starting to wake up, and I have a date with Blanca, the beautiful Mexican woman in the taco truck, who is going to teach me to make corn tortillas and roasted salsa this morning. Soon, I will paddle our kayak (the yellow submarine) to shore where the tourists are enjoying their one week of freedom, and walk to Jose’s Taco Truck.   

But for now I am grateful for these moment, I am grateful for this one ribbon of light, because without it, the dust galaxies still would have floated, and the steam still would have swirled elaborate masterpieces with one mind, and I would have been sipping tea, oblivious. It makes me wonder what else in life is right in front of my eyes that I don’t see and just needs a certain ribbon of light coming in from the front hatch to open my eyes.