Outside Time

You are sitting in a cave on a Mexican island with a yellow journal in your cross-legged lap, writing this.  I am at the computer reading this blog.  Before you write the words, I have already read them.  That’s how I know what you’re going to say, but I’m still interested because I’ve tricked myself into thinking this is the first time.  You are going to say that you hold light and dark in your hand, they are two mirror balls.  They balance each other, and when they touch, the universe is born.  

They hold everything that is in this moment.  And as you spin them in your hands the next moment arrives, and the next, and in this way the flycatcher on the cardon cactus in front of you starts whistling, and the plain moves down its contrail, and the vulture soars to the left, and the emerald water laps at the hull of the sailboat anchored in the bay bellow, and your sister moves her pen at her desk studying back in California, the steam from your mom’s pot of soup is rising, and congress continues to argue, and a girl gives a New York hobo a smile, and a twinkle appears in a Chinese monks eye, and the Voyager I drifts further from earth, searching for life.  Everything at once.  7 billion conciousnesses are receiving scenery input and acting or reacting, all in this one moment which you hold in your hands.  But it’s not just this moment that you hold.

These orbs reflect each other into infinity, holding every moment within themselves.   Like two mirrors facing each other in the bathroom; you look into one, and it shows you a thousand reflections down into infinity, you stand in the middle of a beginningless beginning and and endless end.  In them is your reflection also, because this is the particular form your consciousness is inhabiting at the moment.  A beard has grown around your mouth, your hair is combed back, curling around your ears, on your bear chest hangs a neckless with 108 rose-wood beads.