Consciousness

Consciousness, we speak of it as though it could be defined, pinned down, held still. I have always struggled with what refuses to be wrestled to the ground, and this one takes the cake.

My heart’s desire is that there is one consciousness. That for this blink of the cosmic eye, a small portion of it is folded into this stardust cloak I wear.

Like the butterfly whose wings flicker in far off China and raise waves on our western shore, it began inside a wrapper. We call the wrapper a life and forget it was ever a cocoon.

If that is true, then here, at her resting place, she has already left hers. Joined her flock of butterflies, riding some wind I cannot see.

And one day, so will I.