We are a universe machine.
Tumbling atoms through space and time. We occupy so many things, but we scarcely remember. Touching stone and bark, cool water and hot flame, we experience a sensation that is sometimes as powerful as a memory. A gaze toward the heavens is like looking at a family tree in an infinite expanse all at one time. A window into our past and our futures simultaneously.
Lightning strikes on a subatomic level. Like cellular zombies we animate. The flashes of electricity within us form the machinations of flesh and bone as they reach toward the realms of life and movement and soul. From that which was once a scattered group of ions and particles floating listlessly through time and space, a cadence begins to form. Consuming the molecules around us as fuel. From the very breath that fills our lungs, filled with pieces of time and life itself, it is just a part of us. It’s in the form of the water we are surrounded by and take into our mouths through thirsty lips. The plants and living things among the dirt and foliage become our sustenance to create the next waking breath, and the machinations of God resonate through each calloused footfall. We are a part of the big picture. The universe machine. That is who we are: debris so artfully formed to give us a name and an identity.
So often we drift, still. Two useful feet that can span the earth. Two delicate hands that can shape the world. A mind capable of infinity, but we still lose our way. There is a sense of being so close to connection, reaching for it even, but being unable to join the rhythm. How we chose to walk and to live our lives is paramount to finding the pulse beneath it all. How do you view yourself? Is each day a blessing or a struggle? What if I told you that you are the architect of all of it? I feel as if we are obstinate in the face of grandeur. The mundane is the beautiful when you strip away the layers of familiarity. How many stones unturned that will remain so within our lives? How many paths forged by hoofed feet will go unblemished by the soles of our shoes? As we look into the heavens how many stars will we never touch? I have chosen to ask this question from the other side: how many stars do we see that we were born from? Our pithy worries are everything and nothing all at once. They are baggage that we can put down should we choose to care for them not.
Life is consciousness to those of us navigating the waters of a waking and sleeping life. Each day the hairs become more gray, and the joints ache anew, but these are mere symptoms of the vessel. The particles that inhabit us fully and form who we are are ancient. Carl Sagan once wrote:
“We are a way for the universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can, because the cosmos is also within us. We’re made of star stuff.”
In this we can view the preciousness of a conscious life as the ultimate gift.
Use those feet to carry you onward. Use those hands to mold the path ahead of you, even if it was only traveled before by the ambition of a raindrop. Use those eyes, full of salty tears and tiny oceans to pay attention to the beauty that blossoms before you between every blink. Use your mind that plays your worst and most beautiful movies to you even when you slumber to craft the reality that you cherish. Those tiny thunderstorms within a mass of flesh and bone within your skull have learned to fabricate reality itself. Don’t take it for granted. The fears and anxieties, sadness and joy, all the universe speaking to you. Longing for you to experience it all in the decadent meal on the table of your life. The most simple thing is the entire blanket of stars at your doorstep.
This life is a vacation from non-existence. Live accordingly.