Small Philosophers

 

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A small, weary metaphysician
sits on my left shoulder,
muttering in my ear: "there's no hope;
clearly the world has gone mad", or:
"surely, the transformation of consciousness
will occur; as the crisis escalates,
humans will know we have to
change our ways."

She is realistic, yet stubbornly
refuses to abandon hope.

Then we turn on the news;
not much hope there,
though we are both pleased to observe
the kindness of people to each other
when things are dark and scary.
We applaud those who stand up,
reach out, object. We love the helpers.

This is what we see: a schizophrenic 
population at odds with its own inner knowing,
angry, lashing out, forgetting how to
dive within and tap into our greatness.
My small metaphysician observes
a befuddling planet full of warring factions
who see only Others, and crown Self king.

We have decided our job is
to notice the small things: how the surfer
stands up on the lip of the wave and 
slides softly down; her joyous shriek;
the kindness in dogs' eyes, their tails wagging
an endless happy-to-meet-you.
(Let's all be like dogs.)
We stop to ponder the dewdrop
on a morning leaf, six fat robins on the grass
listening for worms (we listen, too.)

Since my small philosopher and I are old,
we are free to be as odd as we please:
to pontificate or cease from speaking
altogether; to be amazed by every blossom,
every bird, the way a cloud puffs 
perfectly against the sky.

For so long we "sought the approximate
weight of sadness," but in the end,
it is joy and beauty and the possibility 
of peace which frees us.
For, after all, what a breathtaking, beautiful,
wonderful world this is! It has been  a journey
of Amazement, of Gratitude, and of Wonder.

Inspired by "The Metaphysicians of South Jersey" by Stephen Dunn. The italicized line is his, and my closing line differs in tense from his, which was "what a world it was."

Day 15