Member-only story
Observations of the Future
Contemplating the Past
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If I wait until I know everything, I will write nothing. I’m like a painter who, with one stroke of her brush, makes the feeling of movement with a bunch of swallows, uplifted on air currents unseen by me but to them perfectly logical. Maybe what I say makes sense, hopefully at least to me. I would like to write like a swallow’s flight.
Like God. You can’t see God, yet you can see God’s works. If you think that God is in charge of the sun rising and the sun setting, he is not. He or she, depending on how you feel about God, just sort of put the wheels in motion. The days flow. The planet turns. Our world orbits and sets the mood for the time of day and the seasons. The movement of the moon determines the tides. It’s like clockwork. Push me and pull me. Put it into motion and then don’t worry about it. The first set-it-and-forget-it.
A beautifully arranged array of dominoes all standing tall. The first one falls over, and a dance ensues, one after the other, moving.
The problem is that over the last 1,000 years or so, we’ve been changing the Earth so that it no longer operates like clockwork. It’s got a heart murmur. Little seizures like my hands do when they cramp. I gaze as if I were a different person at the deformity…
