Spiritual Darwinism

A world of things that I pinned my identity to, a host of stories and personal mythologies, now feel distant and untouchable. If who we are and what we root ourselves in can shift so dramatically--if things we once said we would die for (meaning it or not) are now things we remember fondly but fail to seek--then who or what are we?

My scope of focus is narrower. I am putting effort into my occupation, into little projects here and there. A year, two years ago I was reading poetry into a microphone, reading my well-worn copy of Rexroth's poems all the time, the same way some people would read a bible. I love these things no less, but... I'm not reaching for them.

And it's very possible that this is completely what human beings are always supposed to do. We inhabit an identity for months or years and then it evolves--which only means survival of the fittest, not survival of that which we choose to believe is most dear. As I've told myself before, somehow the tomorrow's keep coming, one after another, and I'm still here. So I must be doing something right.

Winter has set into the region. Today it's cold rain, last week snow. The leaves are all down. It's going to be four months of bare branches and gray curbs, just like every year. I don't feel heartbroken that the greenery is gone, or that I didn't get outside more often during the summer. I would have, a year or two years ago.

New Year's resolution: Grow lungs and legs. Leave the cold, gray ocean. Learn to fly.