Waiting to be Born by Stuart Greene
I invite you to ruin a canvas.
Raise your brushes high and pound them down
Onto the quivering drum skin of a blank frame.
In colors bright and bold pound out your ambitions,
Your frustrations, your passions, your confusions,
Slam down the disjointed rhythm of your urgencies
And your certainties, if you still have any
And watch as all your true colors run together
And converge into a muddle of entropic brown.
And then ruin another canvas, and another, and another,
Fill your closets, your attic, your basement with your magnificent failures,
Ruin everything you touch with the simple justice of striving.
Ruin everything until one day, without warning,
Something true appears beneath your brush,
Standing bright and still,
And refuses to go away.
It might be a flower, or a bird, or the fullness of a yellowing moon.
It might be the imagined reflection of your own face,
Caught between Mona Lisa shades of hopelessness and wonder.
Whatever appears, cherish it.
Throw away everything you know and start again here.
Rebuild your world in its image,`
For this is the one thing, the only thing you can truly trust.
Embrace it as an axiom, a perfect and unchallenged atom of truth
From which all the diverse molecules of love and reason are born.
Follow it as an equation of motion, the sinuous calculus
Of every infinite and infinitesimal thing.
Trust it to be the very compass of your soul
And everything you touch will lead you home,
Where this one true thing has always been.
Where you have always been.
Waiting to be born.