it is what is of what — it is that of what is
We always break it down to surrendering to our destiny, be that our compulsions to roll with its uncertain and vicarious plan for ALL of us – OR, in haecceity, to enthusiastically grab up our chattels and trek on in vigilance toward a quite specific future moment held firmly in our INDIVIDUAL perceptions. It would seem that we cannot surrender to destiny, but to only our choices. And for others, perhaps it’s just a bittersweet surrender to numb ourselves to the zeal of an evangelist, who’s destiny is to align toward themselves everything their path, like iron filings to a passing magnet. But then again, aren’t our choices made from the same “stuff” of destiny.
There are infinite directions taken by infinite souls, each an individual ray of light emanating from the very center of a large translucent glass sphere; each inevitably intersects the glass at an infinite number of unique locations, in boundless patterns. The path within the sphere is variegated, streaked with diversity – a bittersweet chaos – the collective quiddity of life. The surface is a layer of self-other revelation, one encased future after another; the universe an atom. We leap like electrons to the next outer shell of realization…seeking stability, answers, or just engagement. And it is among those that travel farthest from the nucleus, those with the most energy, that best characterize their reactions with the world around them. It is ironic, yet fitting, that destiny seems to loosen it’s grip on us the further we journey from it’s center; slipping “…the surly bonds of earth…” (no, not Ronald Reagan, but John Gillespie Magee’s poem, “High Flight.” Note that pilot officer Magee was killed in a midair collision 3 months after writing this, he was only 19 when he died. His poems were inspired by his only true and unrequited love for Elinor Lyon with whom he remained friends…he wrote of her, but chose another deeper relationship… but that is another subject altogether).
The victory in surrendering (to love, to pathos, to greatness, or whatever garb your destiny wears) is that of choosing another human, both for theirs and out of your unique essence, to exclusively share in its (loves) execution before the journey ends. But does it? It is said that love never wanes or ceases to spark from the core, it just persistently seeks to reach the surface – to be seen, to be shared, to be celebrated.
Love travels in the deep hulls of a human being; and yet we are all quite unseaworthy vessels for such a precious cargo. Perhaps our pilot would agree for those who fly with love.
THE QUIDDITY, (George Herbert)
God, a verse is not a crown,
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute.
It cannot vault, or dance, or play,
It never was in France or Spain,
Nor can it entertain the day,
With a great stable or domain.
It is no office, art, or news,
Nor the Exchange, or busy Hall,
But it is that which, while I use,
I am with Thee: and Most take all.