Quite often…the story appears to begin in the delivery room.
We are socialized to naturally think that without an audience, the tree does not make a sound as it falls in the woods. It appears to be a moment of truth, the moment when that first breath is taken; the moment beyond when the head first crowns that it all begins to make sense.
These are the never quite remembered flurry of moments in which consciousness and dreaming breath as one. Time itself stands still. For the briefest of moments there is a pause as the universal language utters life; but the mysticism seems to quietly fade away the moment the umbilical chord is cut and the intricate connection with the mother is physically severed forever.
There is no going back, life must always move forward.
Long forgotten are these moments of conception, these magical moments when from the abyss and semi-lifeless single celled separation of man and woman two threads are woven together into the divine. These are the moments that the already begun appears to begin.
Sometimes the subtle nuances of theological faith raging in dialectic tension against scientific reasoning seem unavoidable. Perhaps they should aspire to be more like the awkward dancing of various separate rhythms. Beyond the moment of imagination, the artistic rendering of DNA sequencing, the melodic recording of the complete uniqueness of a life unlike any other…alas, our minds so seldom embrace what exactly it is that our eyes can not see.
What if THE story begins with a birth…a childhood, selected memories, youth, turmoil, angst and joy, mingled randomly with countless other possibilities. There really is no such transcendence found in the deception spoken in the cliché regarding yet again, the same old story. As much thought is given to the moment of the first breath, so too shall it be given at the very moment of the last breath. A story with identical details, a story of yet another birth, and soon we forget all that is not written. The circle of life is the simple irony that everything that every will be, has already been.
Only no one remembers.
Would you rather hear a story that is merely about stale doughnuts or something like that, rather plain, and unassuming?
Good narrative, drama, love, and death. Hollywood I bow to thee.
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