We humans are collectors ever.
Grasping after outward
things to give us more power or sense of Self in a world of Others.
We collect our
“things” in albums, bookcases, wallets, houses, bank vaults, jewellery
boxes, gardens, kennels, stables, wardrobes, Sainsbury shopping trolleys.
They give us our
sense of being “someone”.
We use them to
convince others that we are “someone”.
They also give us our fear of “not being enough”.
Grasping after inward
things to give us a sense of identity, individuality, personality.
We collect our inward things in our minds. We collect thoughts,
memories opinions, emotions, regrets, grievances, plans, hopes.
Asked for a couple of carrots from the garden, we bring our wheelbarrow,
full of our garden produce (in which there may even be a carrot or two). Asked
for the time of day, we will bring a minute by minute account of our
yesterdays and tomorrows.
The wheelbarrow is our egoic self. The overflowing contents are the
contents of our mind, to which we cling with all the pride and fear of a child
in the middle of the elaborate sandcastle, which it has spent all day creating
and defending against the other children. As the shadows lengthen, it casts
increasingly apprehensive glances at the incoming tide (as well as the other
children).
FORGIVE a pronoun’s entry
along a spine,
a suddenly separate spider sentry
wanting to define
his continent of cells,
wanting another
a more than mother brother.
Like whispering shells
sharing a spark
the sun let
fall into their dark.
