Conversations : Trying to make sense of the senseless…again.



On occasion, my mind needs a way to sort out an avalanche of thoughts that come at me.  There are days my fingers walk over the keyboard, I read over what I’ve written, and the thoughts coalesce. 

Other days, like today, it feels as if I’m fighting to escape a cocoon.

Imagine how a butterfly must feel after her struggle.  She doesn’t perseverate over the predators trying to eat her.  She knows only the moment, feeling air currents,  fluttering among the trees.  And yet she will never understand what it’s like to travel among the stars.


I’m sitting in the dark, or as dark as possible with a computer flashing lights, a heater on my feet, and dogs barking.  I’ve spent the past few weeks going over each of my books and the one I like best is number 13.  It starts out so fast-paced and in my mind it’s the most interesting of the series.  Number 7 is like trying to get rid of the leftovers by making a casserole out of tuna, curried chicken, chocolate cake, blueberry pie, and topping it with potato chips.

Your thoughts are scattered.  Focus on what you want to know.

Oneness.  The thoughts wrapped up in that single word bring both a singular joy and singular sadness. Before writing came into being, there were the stars filling a moonless sky, and people wondered “why.”  Now we have light pollution and can no longer see the stars. I suppose that’s what happens when we try to fill the empty with man-made stars.  We call them streetlights.

You came to the computer with a question and you don’t know if you want an answer.

I can’t get past the “I” that intertwines me.  Life is my family of dogs and cats.  Somewhere on the outskirts of my mind are far away children and grandchildren I rarely see.  Yet I have glimpses of a singularity.

You’re thinking of the word “home.”

I’ve been thinking about it more and more.  This thing we call “life” —  it’s not home.  Last night my mind returned to the child looking up at a night sky with an entire life of possibilities ahead of her.

Nothing is as  cocooned in the “me” as a child, and as a child you were deathly afraid of the dark. You no longer look for finite possibilities.  You want to know why your infinite oneness resides in the dark?

That’s when I feel closest to it.  Light hurts my eyes.  All my life I was taught to “look into the light,” and yet it feels all wrong.

Think about the stars against the night. 

Vastness, beauty, but if you get too close to any of those stars, they’re  infernos that will kill you.

A little “light” humor?  Let’s get to the meat of your problem.  You know how the last book is going to end, and you don’t like it.  You don’t like it for one reason.

Not many people are going to understand it.  But here’s the worst part:  It’s as if I’m staring at a curtain and calling it finality.  Why can’t I see what’s behind the darkness and the light?

Now there’s a question that has been posed to deities and intellect for eons.

It’s like trying to break out of a titanium prison with no windows.

When you understand there is something past the barrier, your mind is ready to listen for the clues as to what it is.

At this moment in my life, that’s not enough.

Patience, child.

Geez!  How long is it going to take?

That is the question your mind doesn’t want me to answer.

All right, I’ll bite.  What is the question I DO want answered?

Why your oneness resides in the dark.  That’s the one place your body, mind and spirit meets the common ground of comfort.  Remember, an absence of windows doesn’t negate the presence of a door.  Try knocking on the titanium.