Saturday, May 27, 2023


I know the name of very few varieties of flowers, but I’m some-
times fascinated that a field of the same variety of flower—or
a flowering bush or tree—has variety among the blossoms.

Biologists call it “phenotypic” differences of genotypic expressions. Horticulturalists may aim to cultivate the best, most flourishing expressions of a kind—or risk their life to find a rare kind (e.g., orchid hunters in the tropics).

But mostly, the varietality of so many varieties of life goes unseen. Singularities of a kind go unseen.

Another realization I sometimes feel again with a bush or tree is that it merely is without reason. The eons of biogeny resulted
in kinds which we plant along streets or bring into gardens, giving life preence that biogeny itself did not intend (as biogeny has no intention at all).

Life came to come again and again, to go away again and again.

“Life’s what you make it,” they say.

In the night, the dark and cold galaxy too “says” “Life’s yours to make matter,” as our little minds personify the stars into fanciful constellations which don’t hint (even hiding) the terrifying scale of the senseless cosmos.

Ultimacy is opening. It is the Openness of being, Ours to design relative to lives which are made ours.

The dream of lovers is to make something lasting which is wholly “ours,” which gives meaning to life.

The artist may be like the pure scientist: fascinated, curious, inquiring, and creative for its own sake—for the thrill of the venturing.

Given ventures end, leaving us in an openness of time that will, we avow, open into new venturing.

A lover leaves. One moves on.

A remembrance comes to closure which, like sleep, awakes.

In the meantime, whatever.

I’ve truly loved.

I will again.