My son’s room is blanketed by lego pieces. Some put together. Others waiting for his growing hands and fingers to construct something from nothing. In the calm silence of the morning, his room bathed in morning light, you can look around and almost feel him. Feel his potentiality in the space.
There is something I can’t quite express about the flatness of time. We’ve come to understand time linearly. This came before that. This comes after that. “In the past..” “Next year, we’re going to…” But there is this feeling that continues to visit me that tells me I’m wrong. Or that perhaps my calibration isn’t up to snuff. That the original sense of time is instead always and never at once. His room seems to be this encapsulation of that. These pieces are on the floor now, but in a few months they’ll be replaced by something else, but, to me, those pieces will always be on the floor. They will always live somewhere else for me for all of time. I find myself speechless quite often when I walk in there. This presence. This potentiality. This formation of a person, A soul coming into being and I am witnessing all of it, all of the time.
What can possibly make you care anything for a career when you live amongst magic? What can bring you down to the dirt to argue over imaginative things when the world is quite literally whispering in your ear “here is magic.”