The sea of floating grey billows that flows past me in the cool, misty evening - in this Spring that seems to be holding winter to its heart and refusing to let go - moves steadily past, in sublime disregard of my desire for the warmth of the sun they conceal. And the voices of my feathered brethren who greet the coming night with almost frantic desire for some respite from the unrelenting might of the winds from the cold ocean echo my uneasiness. I huddle in my blanket and watch as the light fades over the tops of the green shadows of cedars, firs and hemlock.
I love these things. The earth that gives me life. The life that surrounds me. I am even coming to love my vulnerability to these forces that are much greater than I am.
This is what defines me.
I am not self-sufficient. I am not alone in my love for these things. By myself I am powerless to effect more than minor changes in this web of life I love.
A siren wails in the distance. A disturbance to this moment of tranquility. Yet, I love those who make the siren wail. They have dedicated their lives to serving those who are vulnerable and in need. They took the courses in CPR and spent many hours learning life-saving techniques, learning how to save homes of strangers from fire. They are dedicated to keeping me, and those around me, safe. It is not the sound of an enemy. It is the song of friends.
I can write this because of others whom I love. Those teachers who dedicated themselves to bringing knowledge to that ornery ball of annoyance I was at six (and at seventeen). They dedicated their lives to helping me and a multitude of others like me learn how to navigate the difficult and treacherous waters of words, books and life in a literate civilization. They only desired what was best for me and this earth I love. They helped me learn to distinguish the truth from the lie in the murky waters of competing claims for my attention. They helped me develop my understanding and love for this web of life I am enmeshed within.
I am not self-sufficient. I am vulnerable and incapable of defending myself from those within my community who have lost their way and seek to take from me by force what I have gained by my honest labor. I love those who have dedicated their lives to protecting me and my neighbors from these dangers - the thin blue line that separates order from disorder.
We may argue about what the words “order” and “disorder” may mean, but we can’t argue that those who have chosen to serve what they best understand as “order” have made a noble and honorable choice.
I live in a finite place. A place with waters, green leaves, crawling insects, fungi and owls who hunt in silence. It is a place I love. A place I am coming, like a child learning the alphabet, to grasp only its most basic fundamentals. Those fundamentals tell me I am not free. They tell me I am limited by responsibility. I am not allowed to refuse to respond to the necessities of this place I inhabit.
I despair at the manipulations of my fellow citizens who labor under the illusion that they can “own” pieces of this earth, that they can “control” others. That they have “power.” I have learned that, while I might have something I think is “power,” I wasn’t given that power because I deserved it. I was given that power because this place I live in brought forth that power as a result of its inevitable development. I am not an end, I am a means. And I have no ability to comprehend that end.
My neurons are not mine. They belong to this place. My thoughts are not mine. I can own nothing. I only believe I own them because I am what this place has made me.
I am reminded of what Lao Tzu says, that someone who can control others is someone who is strong. But someone who can control themselves is truly powerful.
I realize that I am not defined by my illusion of power, by what makes me angry, by what I hate. I am defined by what I love, by the responsibility that love awakens in me.