Monday, October 1, 2012

Blind Distance

Some things exist beyond circumstance.  Sometimes we are far away from a place or a person or who we are.  When we blink, do these things still exist?   And while we sleep?  Does a juggler watch every ball at every moment?

How far away is Japan?  By what factor of time and space have I removed myself from myself, from people I care about, from places in which I'm familiar?  What will transcend this distance?  I think there is something to learn of trust in this.  Even in times of being close, what gives us the trust to feel that something is real, that a person or an ideal is integral to our being?  How much of this is something that we can control, and how much of it is something that we can only observe with curiosity and humility?

In any given moment in life, we are removed from the things and the people that are a part of us.  Bow hair loosened until the next performance, the unnamed deadline that inspires the act of creation.  The person next to us, engaged in a TV show, or in the next room, having dinner.  Maybe they're driving home, or maybe they won't gather until next Saturday's brunch.   Maybe they are across an ocean, asleep while we work.  Where are they?  How do we know that they are still there?

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