In Transit

                                          
                                                
 One                                                
                                                 
 It is late; but I am beginning here a something:
a ponding brook, a cloud of debris, an opening.        
The majority of my days as a viable human/ have    
passed, and I--now the hermit I thought I always   
wanted to be--am grateful, yet lost.  There is        
in me a quivering understanding of how I got to   
where I am, moment into moment into moment; but   
no understanding at all of what comes next.  A   
swirl of humans accompanies me/ on this planet:
some of whom I interact with; most of whom I do
not know.  I have and use a name: a family name,
a first name, a middle name, and a chosen-by-me
Confirmation name.  Yet, I constantly question  
it/them.  Who am I, really?  In my imagination  
there is another me who is a philanthropist,    
or was a philanthropist.  My existence at this   
moment is an absolute mystery, a mystery which
is the result of choices beyond comprehension.
The choices include choices I have made, choices
of all levels of good and evil.  Really, who am   
I?  Why am I?  What motivates me to pursue  
what I pursue?  It is late.                     
                                           
                                                 
                                             
                                               
Rho00116                      
                                                    
                                          
                                          
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Gustav Holst  The Planets  Op.32  Jupiter