Tatya will write about Celeste Meyn, and turning into a man, but first she must try to open the damn door
Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does it’s odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
All my years I have been severely longing for that bolt of epiphany. I have heard from many reliable sources that it does happen. On hillsides, where one feels “one with creation”; during meditation when you are brushed by divinity; when you meet a man/woman and “just know (s)he is the ‘one’”; the instant when your destiny is revealed or when you find your “calling”.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve gone looking to “mountains bigger than my dreams”, meditated myself to sleep and met many a man and woman without feeling as much as a cramp. Even when I practise Reiki, the receivers say they feel a warmth or easing of pain, but I don’t feel anything.
I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn’t ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
Nothing. No sudden realisation through hindsight. No divine knowledge that makes sense of the situation. No sentence in my life begins with, “At that very instant, I knew…” (except when ending with ‘I was going to have the two of the cookie-ice-creams’).
It feels like not being invited to the world’s biggest party.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
What every agnostic will tell you, is true. We, more than anybody else, want desperately a reason to believe in a higher power. Oh I believe in the Universe and that it works in insidious ways, but I receive no postcards from the astral plane. When I ask people in the spiritual business, they always say mysteriously, “You’ll know when it happens” or “when it is time”.
Stop that. Seriously. Very bad PR.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all it’s time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
I wasn’t brought up with the burden of religion, for which I am very glad. For me religion = human-made = flawed. Not to offend, but you know what I mean?
So naturally I am envious of people who build their lives on the rock of this certainty. Envious and curious. By which I also understand why people convert to a religion or becomes zealous. How it must provide an anchor of identity. How the rituals provide comfort or a code for living in times of grief or anxiety. It is a compass for navigating through the chaos of life. Agnostics wander about looking for the waiter with the best starters.
It’s like holding on to your mother’s hand in a crowd.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
But I am always looking up to see if it is indeed my mother I am holding on to. And is she the best mother I can get? Or should I see if I can get one for half the price at Fashion Street?
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Have you had tea with epiphany?
Excerpts from O Tell Me The Truth About Love by W H Auden