One plant flourishes, another plant dies.
In the same house. The same light. The
same love. I don’t know why. Too much
water? Not enough? Who can say?
When I was young (so imperious), I
demanded my questions have answers.
Why was a vision quest up Mt. Olympus.
I will know the truth and be free to rest
easy. It will all make sense to me. I might
finally find relief (so naive).
It does help to know the truth. It lightens
the burden of darkness, but it comes as it
will, not by demand or decree or stubborn
insistence. Rilke’s “Live the questions” is
so beautifully poetic, so mesmerizingly
profound, one forgets the sheer impossibility
of his advice. And yet, what choice do we have?
We want to know why with a holy passion,
refusing to go on without an answer and so we
sit, languishing, pure water turning squalid.
Pure love turning bitter, heartless, hateful.
There are things we don’t know, may never
know. Don’t waste time and energy banging
on doors that won’t open. Walk on. Keep
what you know close beside you, like a beloved
friend and seek out the doors which invite,
admit, swing out wide to welcome you.