Rocks and Stardust

Mozart played the piano not only because he was good at it, but because he could lose himself in the keys and the symphonies. Floating away as if there was nothing else in the world, nothing as of importance more important than what you’re currently engulfed in.

People do what they love, do what they’re passionate about,
do what makes their hearts expand and fill up and pour over on top of themselves,
because it makes us feel alive. It moves the dust. 

When people have someone to share their passions with (or passion itself.. or the idea of passion), people lose themselves in each other, tossing and turning and yearning for something that they feel they don’t have and need to find it in another human being.

Is it in their body or their soul? It should be in both. Together. At the same time. It’s the dust that makes us up.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, is what people say when one’s buried, when one has died. We are made of dust (some say we’re made of stardust) and when we die we’ll again become dust.

But while people are still here, if they don’t have anyone to share their passions with, some people lose themselves in themselves. Tossing and turning and yearning for something that they think they can create for themselves eyes closed breath held usually letting themselves down in some way or another.

That almost painful heartfelt feeling bursting at the seems like you’re a shirt that’s too small for your arm muscles, like you pour a glass of cold milk to the brim and a little bit flows over the side. It’s weird that it’s painful, that happiness (or is it emptiness…?) can make you feel that way. And maybe it’s just me, feeling like my heart breaks all over again.

I think of T.S. Eliot and where my life is that I’ve lost in living… Or is it Life. A capital L makes all the difference doesn’t it? It creates the perspective (… or allusion) of a Life holier, mightier, more powerful and mysterious than mine own.

“O perpetual revolution of configured stars…
…All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death”!

I’d pray for wisdom and knowledge, understanding of why hearts hurt, why hearts break, how can an internal organ that sustains our existence feel like it can contain so much physical pain? I’d pray for these things, but I don’t honestly thing they’ll ever come.

“The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries
Bring us farther from God and neared to the Dust.”

What is My Rock?

To find something that holds you in place, say, that grounds you, that prevents you from flying off into the universe (oh, but may we ever impact the Universe?) and swirling around into sparkles and dust, to find something like that is so rare, so unique, it’s never spoken of. For some people it’s vices like drugs and alcohol, and I guess for others it’s love, or marriage, or occasionally both. For many it’s their career, their family, their education. Still, I think these are all temporary, nonconcrete rocks.

“The Rock. The Watcher. The Stranger”

Maybe it’s not a thing (or things) we should be searching for, but rather a someone, a who. Maybe it is God. Maybe it is the Universe. MAYBE IT’S OURSELVES. Perhaps we’re not meant to be grounded but we are meant to be dust (the good kind, the holy and innocent kind), poured out from our burnt and charred insides to be picked up again by the winds of the worlds and thrown and strewn about, sometimes rapidly, sometimes gently, sprinkling stars (LIGHT) among the universe. 

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