Memories are tricky things. You may not remember exactly when something happened, you just know that it did.
For instance the very first ever recollection that I have, either took place in Colville or in Spokane. And I was either under five or over seven as there were a number of years separating those two locales on my timeline.
I tend towards the earlier time, thinking I must have been on the young and precocious side.
It is a very narrow slice of memory; of a duration of only seconds not minutes. But the thoughts generated, echo from that moment and resonate to this day in my being.
I know this is going to sound narcissistic, and it might be in a small way. But not totally. It does entail a reflection, and the image was mine. The thought engendered in me, however, was one of wonder, not self-appreciation. I remember thinking that the face I was looking into was alive. And that awareness was almost too awesome to take in. Obviously I had never heard of Descartes, nor his conclusion “I think therefore I am.” Not that is, until years later.
There were other thoughts and feelings that crowded into that moment of revelation. Chief of which was a sense of gratitude, perhaps strange to relate. A thankfulness for whoever put me here, not just in Colville (or Spokane), but in the bigger context of the United States of America, a free nation. Of course, my experience of freedom, at that point was limited. I knew that freedom was good, and I was thankful for it.
I don’t know if at that time I knew the word “blessing.” I knew the idea, whether or not I had a word for it.
And the crazy thing is, at base it was a realization that I was a created being. And that somewhere there was a creator.
Which leads me to share a poem that I wrote in the 1990s, and used as the lead off in a book that I self published in 1993. [And leads off the publication of my first collection of poetry, Songs of the Prophets].
MANIFEST
My rhymes
are but pale attempts
to tell the truth of beauty
and the beauty of truth.
For I am only
fingertip to fingertip
through the mesh of times
and though what I see
is as through a glass
that's dim
I make out the outline
of HIM
who in all things
sublimes.