When grief and despair around seem to drown us, our basic response is to thirst for life’s impulse. Hospital staff who work for a long time caring for the terminally ill, for example, tend to thirst for the greener side of life among newborns, and wish they could shift work to some neonatal unit. To behold signs of new life is itself a reinvigorating, ecstatic experience. Here are some strings of insights I captured back when I was an expectant father. To all fathers-to-be out there waiting for the bedroom Big Bang, you can capture those waiting moments in many creative ways. I would love my son to read this when he is old enough and declare: “Aren’t these weird stuff, Dad?”
The urge to write again after a long hiatus from journaling is surging like spring from deep earth. I feel the creative force of Ideas and Intuition in my restlessness to respect its movement. In my own sense of isolation, I feel the need to reconnect to the Ground of everything including emptiness. Writing has now become a way of being for me: staying with life’s ambiguities of flows and ebbs, of listening to the microcosmic world within and to the macrocosmic significance of night stars and trees and sun’s daylight. With your unfolding, I have more reason to listen to this cosmic movement much mysterious than my own consciousness can comprehend. Now I feel renewed to start a new chapter of this journal because of your participation in this seemingly eternal birthing of the Universe.
I could stamp my personal uniqueness to this writing process. But an equally powerful voice keeps reminding me that writing has its other instrumental value – that of capturing through the container of words the matrices of mystery that include its past, its present, and its possibilities. Within the confine of my consciousness, the effort is simply descriptive and reflective, less the assurance that the cosmic unfolding in you will not escape me in its entirety. As I count on your cosmic significance, I also acknowledge mine, with the Universe having imparted to me a greater responsibility to participate with the tool of a higher consciousness. This is one gift of reflection – to learn to value more the growing life within. In a way, as I contemplate on your creative process, I also connect to my own inner configuration. Bottom line: we are one in this creative cosmic birth.
I’m glad because by now, you cease being a possible participant in God’s patient evolutionary plan. By the time of your conception, you already count in the cosmic chart. Ecologist Dennis Rivers said it more enigmatically: “we are the Milky Way with arms and legs, eyes and ears, and hearts yearning to love.” You are an impulse of an ever-changing intricate universe. Your own heartbeat after 8 weeks is no different from the beat of spring droplets birthing from the earth; no different from water-charged clouds beating to give birth to rain; no different from flower buds beating to give birth to new petals; no different from cocoons beating to give birth to new butterflies. Countless creatures simultaneously beat with you. This is how noble you are. This is your God-configured physiological proportion and your cosmic dignity.
Romantic as this startup may sound, an equal sense of risk is running through my veins. It is the risk of trusting the mysterious flow of cosmic energy, your flow. It is the risk of trusting the unknown of what you might become. The risk involves letting go of needs centered in my ego and are often categorized between success and failure. It is the risk of trusting your own mystery that is far greater than your genetic inheritance from us. The risk demands from us to trust that the world is safe enough to lovingly carry you and support your fragile flowering. The stars by night watch over you. The sun by day illumines your surrounding. Our presence will always be your blanket. Ultimately, you are in God’s mind. You now belong to the web of life. My favorite cosmologist Richard Tarnas puts it philosophically: you are “a genuine focus of unfolding cosmic purpose and meaning.”