On Moving Through Space

What was your crowning achievement?

Did you ask questions in between the trumpets blaring? Were you paying any attention? Could you reach between the couch cushions? Can you see where your feet used to land? Your head? Your heart?

Whatever you've been inclined to say, say it now. You've been looking through a window at a street that runs directly through your chest and out your back; you're outside-in. 

But look, there -- out beyond the ten-day forecast. It's the latest update. You didn't know you'd been going anywhere at all, when suddenly the sun asked you to help out a little bit. Shining is labor-intensive. There's a bottle left on your sill. 

But there's a mist in the air now -- a silken fog that hangs light above the pines on the mountains around you. Are you alone? I don't think so. "The air has more weight here is all," you say. 

But it's the ancient, winding river and twisted, reaching roots that grip into the soft peat beneath your feet that whisper to you now. "Everything, ever," they say. 

You realize you aren't small, but sprawling. Not the vacuous urban sprawling of the wretched artificial places, but something mycelial; delicate and threadlike hyphae asking the earth to make room, rather than demanding so. You can lay back and watch yourself unfold into a trillion filaments of thought, all reaching out into space and through time, quietly asking. 

What was your crowning achievement? 

Can you see where your feet will land? 

Does it matter?