My heart stirred, waking up from the mild vacuum of the nights rest. It stirred and started to fill, and overfull I reached to touch my lover. Palm and fingers shimmered into her, flesh caressing flesh, love touching love. I touched her.
We spent twenty quiet minutes in our morning devotionals. Her scent required devotion. Her hair called to my hand to stroke. Our lips created a new being, touches created our being, our joyful art re-creating us in sparks and surround. Sometimes the heart rises past my throat and tears come out.
As our eyes adjusted to the morning and our bodies dis-identified with the gravity of the mattress, Noni remembered an outside world and went to put on music. “I’ve Got to Praise You”, by Fat Boy Slim. “Morning has Broken” by Cat Stevens. “In the Presence of the Lord”, sung by Eric Clapton in Blindfaith. Followed up by some Dire Straights.
When my feet touched the floor, the Cranberries made them squirmy, so I put on my girls new rainbow foam platform sandals, and spun and danced. Mr. Penis was happy to be thrown around and got a wild view of our room.
Next I cleaned up the remains of our home-made glass table. The rhythms of our mattress dancing of the night before had pushed the bed into it. The crash and tinkles had been loud, but neither sound nor mess nor the loss had bothered us.
We live a simple life. It is like a blooming southern California desert – each plant framed in the space of weed free sand. A very plain, full life. Noni thanks her food with a smile and bobbing head before she eats.
Morning Has Broken
As sung by Cat Stevens
lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word
Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day
After people get rational, we step away from believing in Santa Claus and other myths. But can we yet see clearly emergent properties? Love is not a thing, it arises dependent on causes and conditions, like phantasms fluorescing on this computer screen. I choose to not be bothered by broken glass, I choose to not be fascinated by owning things, I choose joy and communions, and these chosen patterns form the phantasms that enliven the colors and corners of our room. Ambiance sings here.
Nihilism is self-contradictory; if nothing has meaning, then so does that statement. So if meaning is a meaningless concept, it is just as valid to see and enjoy meaning, even if all meaning is framed with weedless sand.
Isn’t devotion the sanest response, the sanest cultivation?
Update: This article about existential meaning seems to agree with my meaning about meaning.