We are a mystery-loving, more-more loving species. We grasp to know more, to organize it, to capture and manipulate it, and yet…we want more. There is more of a story to elicit. The truth is we love the unknown, reach toward it, rush toward it. The unknown is pregnant, the question calls us to quest, the answer leaves us unsated. The poet, the mystic, the dreamer are our reaching edge.
:- Doug.
We see the pendulum weight swing, but what of its anchor and its cord? What are they? What might we find them signifying? What can we make of them? A still point of a world not able to make up its mind—or a still point of a world that connects all (apparent) dichotomies. A cord that holds us together—weight and center and cord all one—telling us if we have eyes that we are all one. Certainly more.
:- Doug.
Poems do not prove
We suggest
Pregnancy is proved
In birthing
Humans are proved
Togethering
:- Doug.
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