Our first egg of the new year.
It’s like the year itself — its own small world, newly laid, still unhatched, a hope not yet realized, a prayer not yet answered.
Is it alive? Where? In the shell of our thoughts and hopes and dreams and fears? Outside them all, irrespective of our belief or acknowledgment?
Somewhere in between?
We live constrained by lines of demarcation, boundaries, borders that tell us where we are in space and time, who we are by bone and blood. I know that it is end of day; the shadows tell me so. I know that it is birth of year, because calendar and clock have decreed it.
And beneath the shell, below the bone, before birth and even womb, there are other lines, other spaces. A new year that began ten days past, reckoned by the very light itself. A way of marking it that is as old as time.
A new world has just struggled to be born, made its way out of the womb, out of the shell, into light too bright and air too thin and winds far too cold to live . . . and yet it lives anyway. Surely that’s accomplishment enough, goal enough for now?
Last year was survival, right up to the bitter spastic end.
This year is birth, life, living.
The ancestors understood emergence, just as they understood time and how to mark it, the light and how to reckon by it, the spirits of day and night and season and how to gain their cooperation, or at least, in a good year, to avoid their wrath.
This is a year to emerge, to come out of my shell, to deliver myself of a womb of the world’s making, one that has too long constrained rather than sustained. It all begins with the cracking of the shell, the flow of the water, the lines and the shadows and the spaces between.
This is a world for the making. A world in which I have a place, a space: no boundaries, no borders to fence me in or keep me out, no lines to deny my self or name or create me in someone else’s image. A world in which I have a life.
I resolve to live.
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