The Art of Being
By Deborah Chandler, Ph.D.
I awaken with spring. I start to notice the halo of fuzz on budding trees, preparing to unfurl their majestic canopies.
I scan the night sky, hoping it will reveal its secrets to me. The spring sky seems brighter and closer. I see Andromeda. This galaxy is hurling through the heavens at 70 miles each second on a collision course with our Milky Way Galaxy. This galactic merging will begin in about 3.75 billion years. How do I grasp the vastness of space? How do I comprehend the minute speck that I refer to as my self?
Focused back on earth, I struggle to comprehend the inexplicable facts of existence. Science provides wonderful theories and stories. But the fact that life exists reveals a power, a determination to manifest that is incomprehensible.
As a species we have always created stories to explain existence. We rely upon these narratives to define our place. Yet the stories that extol the sacredness of our appearance become separate from my life as I live it.
I notice I collapse into my own needs and disrespect the fragility that allows this existence to sustain its self. What choices do I make that support the cosmic mission spreading out from me? Does it matter that I curb my anger, my greed? I’ve acquired the perspective that my actions, emotions are part of the larger unfolding of the cosmic dance. As a speck in the dance, I hold myself accountable for the integrity of the universe. I believe that my minute choices influence the existence of all life. How could I be other than joined with the cosmic oneness?
Within, I am convinced that kindness makes a difference in the cosmos. Somehow, I want to know that I have a place and a share in the outcome. I may never know how my part influences existence. I just want to do my best to provide nurturing, so that the fuzz on the trees blossoms forth creating the miracle of spring.
Do I blame my self for the disasters that befall us on this planet? No. But I do ask that I hold up my end of the relationship. I want to deprive my self of the luxury of whining, bemoaning, and suffering. The miracle of existence shines forth in its splendor and ferocity. I need to celebrate the majestic manifestation of life in whatever form it puts forth. I am a miracle, masquerading as an identity. All that will be left in the end will be the vastness of the cosmos.