![]() ![]() Walls came unseamed and reseamed before disbelieving eyes that had not yet computed, for it was beyond the computational power of everyday consciousness, what was taking place. The pavement beneath them accordioned, then gaped open, swallowing cars and spitting them back up. On MaGood Friday - thousands of selves in Anchorage, Alaska came unpinned from their most elemental certitudes about reality, about safety, about the thousand small sanities by which we bestill this turning world to make it livable.Īt 5:36PM, as the afternoon sun was slipping lazily toward the horizon - that quiet daily assurance that the Earth moves intact on its steady axis along its unfaltering orbital path - street lights began swaying, then flying. And yet that point is pinned to a figment - our fundamental creaturely sense of reality is founded upon the illusion of absolute rest. Eliot’s lovely phrase from one of the greatest poems ever written. We might spend our lives trying to discern where we end and the rest of the world begins, but we save them by experiencing ourselves - our selves, each individual self - as “the still point of the turning world,” to borrow T.S. ![]()
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