Our Place in the Universe: a love letter

Our universe was born from a violent blast or collision that caused particles to be flung at speeds we cannot fathom, distances we can only hypothesize, and at heats we quantify but cannot comprehend. Each tiny particle is made of just energy, which somehow has come together to form stars, planets, black holes, dark matter, and all kinds of wondrous unknowns.

This universe made of energy is turbulent, violent, awesome and beautiful, where galaxies collide and stars explode.

Here, somewhere in the middle, out toward the edges of one of our galaxy’s elegant, sparkling spiraled arms, we sit on an extraordinary blue sphere. On this little rock covered in water, life is pervasive. Life that spans from single-celled organisms to incredibly complex mammals, like ourselves. Ourselves, who even amidst incredible biological diversity, are extraordinary.

The existence of human life is tenuous and fragile. It is hypothesized that we came into being only because a cataclysmic event destroyed the dominant life before us, and it is constantly hypothesized that another one could extinguish us just as completely, without warning, and without a chance to comprehend our demise.

Over four billion years all of the organic material and chemistry needed to make you and me survived meteors, climate change, disease, famine and war. How this came to be I only understand in broad and general terms. What I know for certain and beyond any doubt is that you and I are phenomenal. The fact that we as humans evolved in such a way as to have intellect, self-awareness and empathy means that when I am next to you I can appreciate it and marvel at how exceptional it is. If indeed our little blue planet disappeared before I finished writing this letter to you, I would be supremely thankful for my life with you, even though in context to the universe it lasted for only a fraction of an instant.

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Our Place in the Universe: a love letter by Ceridwynne Lake is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at peelbacktheveil.wordpress.com.

Looking for Sherds: an anthropological study of a personal history

The Beginning of a Long, Cold Winter

She sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the body for a moment. She took her forefinger and caressed it down the length of the nose, still expecting some sign of life. She hoped that with her touch her mother may take a small breath; her eyes involuntarily darted to her mother’s chest expecting to see it rise if ever so slightly.

At very least she longed to feel the last bit warmth as it left her mother’s body. But upon her touch she felt nothing. There was no warmth that signals life, or a life that was. The touch to the body had the strange similar sensation as touching a mannequin, with a waxy coldness and a skin that did not respond to touch the way a skin ought to.

Her finger lingered on the tip of her mother’s nose while reality presented itself to her mind. This thing she touched would not react to her, it would not stir, it would not embrace or comfort her — it was not her mother.

She was alone.

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Ephēmeros

The scent of jasmine
passing on a summer wind

The crimson of a fall leaf
before it drops

A single warm day
in the middle of winter

The fragile bud
of spring’s first flower

A sweet dream
that lingers for an instant

You

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Progesso sem Ordem (nem Sentido)

We move forward. We progress. We do our best to leave behind the heartaches and struggles that have left us with these scars that now define our characters.

Our characters that are strong, interesting and give us the impetus to keep moving forward to do what we do, and what we do, what we have chosen to do, is not easy.

In the midst of this progress, in the middle of these steps that move us forward, it is impossible not to hear a song or inhale a scent that immediately transports us back to one of those moments that we had forgotten. A moment that was once so difficult, a moment we struggled through and fought fiercely to escape.

And yet, in that brief moment to which we regress, we can’t help but to feel a sense of nostalgia and longing, because it is, after all, what made us who we are.

And who we are is Beautiful.

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Yes

When the scent of a rose beckons me,
I gladly oblige.
With a gentle caress of her velvet petals,
I pull her bloom close to my face,
so that I may inhale her beauty.

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Looking for Sherds: an anthropological study of a personal history by Ceridwynne Lake is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at peelbacktheveil.wordpress.com.

Água de Coco: a tale of a common human experience in an uncommonly beautiful city

Rio de Janeiro is sexy, everything about it is sexy. The topography is striking with rocks jutting up through the city and out of the sea. Each rocky mound is adorned with the emerald of encroaching jungle, the rhythm of favelas and the warmth of Christ. Iemanjá, the goddess of the sea, the mother, watches over her children who in turn fill the ocean with flowers in adoration. Samba infects the soul, syncopates the heart’s beat and dictates the sultry sway of the hips.

In Rio everyone is beautiful and everyone is in love, but love in Rio is fickle.

Everywhere you see couples kissing on the bus, in the movies, on the beach, and in the streets. Lovers are whispering into one another’s ear. And you… you too have the sweetest things ever spoken, spoken softly into your ear, and you believe it, every last word of it, because it is said with such sincerity. You too are being kissed on the bus, in the movies, on the beach, and in the streets. You have the persistent sweetness of your lover’s honey on your lips.

Then come the rains.

In Rio it rains for days on end, and it rains hard. It washes everything away. Into the storm drains go the piles of dog shit from the sidewalks, down goes the tramped on fruit from the farmer’s market, down goes the blood from favela shootings. In the end, down goes your love as well. After the rain, you are left only with memories and the fading taste of honey in your mouth.

But everywhere else those couples continue to kiss on the bus, in the movies, on the beach, and in the streets. Despite your desperate attempts to maintain composure your eyes fill with water and wet your cheeks in broad daylight, in public, in front of the whole damned kissing world. All you want to do is hide inside your house. You don’t even want to go to the corner to buy an água de coco because you know you will be reminded by a couple kissing in the background how you are no longer being kissed.

“Água de coco” — “coconut water.” If you intone it incorrectly, “água de cocó,” it becomes “s**t water.” Água de cocó is what you have been drinking. Your grief makes everything bitter and churn in your stomach.

Finally, once your grief has ravaged you completely, it rains again. It rains with violent downpours, heavy winds, thunder and lightning. The rains come down so heavy that you cannot leave your house, which makes you realize how much you actually want to.

Then, a thunderous boom catches your attention and forces you to take another look at the world outside yourself. You see the bolts of lightning zig-zag and dance through the sky of Rio, illuminating the viscous clouds with brilliant pinks and purples. Mother Nature’s dramatic light show illuminates the Christ; his arms outstretched, forever anticipating an embrace.

The next morning you awake to the sun blazing through your window so hot that it sets your skin on fire. You decide to explore your renewed freedom in the sun and stop on the corner to get an água de coco. The couple kissing in the background, they’re just a couple in the background. So, you take a sip of your coconut water and relish the sweetness it leaves in your mouth as you start down the freshly washed street.

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Água de Coco: a tale of a common human experience in an uncommonly beautiful city by Ceridwynne Lake is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at peelbacktheveil.wordpress.com.

Spirit in Evolution: why wine is the color of blood

Old vine grapes,
The trunks of these vines are often twisted and gnarled. The grapes they produce are few and small in size.

Conversely, irrigated grapes grow on vines that are perfect to the eye. The grapes, because of water being fed directly to them, grow large and plump. Their leaves are bright green – almost iridescent. To look upon a vineyard of irrigated grapes is a visual sensation. With all the vines perfectly lined one next to each other, their branches outstretched — touching. With beautiful bunches of round watery fruit adorning them like jewels. So many perfectly tended vines spread as far as the eye can see, up and over rolling hills of yet more emerald-green.

The colors of old vines are darker, deeper… their leaves look dusty and unkempt as if they themselves were the old men who had spent their lives carefully cutting and pruning each gnarled vine with their old, tired, gnarled hands. Each vine is distinct — presenting to the eye a visual mess. They are not striking or awe-inspiring. But deep beneath the dry terrain that these vines rest upon, their roots have grown. Taking years, digging into the heart of the earth in search of life-sustaining minerals and water — accomplishing utter fortitude. Because of how long it took, how hard it was, and how deep the roots grew, these vines have acquired wisdom and complexity. While they may not produce in quantity, like the irrigated vines, and while they may not be a visual sensation, their grapes, once upon the tongue, explode with the flavor of generations.

Irrigated vines produce wines for the masses. This is a purpose not meant to be diminished since the masses are the measure on which the marginal compare themselves — the masses drive us. The masses coo in praise of the deep ruby spirit obtained from irrigated vines, not placing a care on the harsh, sour liquor it has produced because sublime intoxication is enough. Quietly removed from the inebriated dance of the masses are the marginal — those who have lived lives parallel to the old vine grapes.

For the marginal the complexity of the wine derived from these imperfect, embattled vines is much more desired. They yearn to let its deep crimson wine fill their mouths. A Wine that has undercurrents of struggle and resignation, but top-notes of love and triumph — a wine free of sour bitterness.

Spirit in Evolution by Ceridwynne Lake is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at peelbacktheveil.wordpress.com.

I Will Take Your Hand: an open letter to Madame Morte

My friend of old and eternal,
I know you seek me still
but this moment is for life.

The mornings fill my lungs with air
bringing color to my cheeks
to my fingertips,
to my feet.
Filling me with vibrance,
light,
possibility.

The afternoons bustle with the sounds of the world,
squeals of pleasure,
cries of sorrow,
sighs of contentment.
Sounds of a complicated world — living.

In the evenings I lift whiskey to my lips.
Whiskey that took a generation
to fill my mouth with musk,
honey,
and wisdom.
A toast.
A celebration.
A reprieve.

I know you seek me still.

The day will come when I feel your icy hand in mine,
your bones against my flesh.

I have not forgotten our history.
I have not forgotten our future.

I Will Take Your Hand by Ceridwynne Lake is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at peelbacktheveil.wordpress.com.