The Great Place

There is truth in a mandala. Intricate design, temporary here-ness. Intricate de-sign. An undoing of knowing and seeing. Centered amongst weaving looping detail, a mandala is no sort of dock. Yet it is. We turn on a pivot, those of us left solitary in the centeredness. Self-centered yet selfless. A mandala is a moore. The others of this place float away, haphazardly some, yes. Ships built of the splintered planks of last minute graspings. Oars dip into the deep, oars of fibreglass-like regret. It isn't just water that will wash away this design. Wind can do so, as well.

SOS on a beach shore. Too close to the tide, half washed away. Hopeful mandalas are the worst. 

This mandala now, if seen well... Is one's life's knowing of each and every notable person. The weave of their story, and how so much of their own story was absolutely not your story, but 1000 what -ifs, 1000 almost your stories. Not all examples, but parallel human swoops, entwined to form limited yet full understanding. Of what else. 

Of what else? Of WHAT else.........?!

This arm of the mandala, here, the blue circles, spikes and points. It is the post where Stephanie said she had got her booster. Gone 6 days later. A friend since grade six. The red and white curves here, my brother and the shards of windshield glass. The tree his vehicle wrapped around. Yellow arcs and corners, even fuller, the sound of the words from the doctor's mouth. Your son is Autistic. Black outlines to every loop and bend, this mandala is trimmed with fine shape. Underscoring the moment of finding you.

Of all the stories that are not mine, will never be mine, yours feels like it maybe, almost was, while yes.... fully being mine. 

Two brothers into the unknown. Siblings lost. 

Smart, bullied yet kind, karate and breakfast club. Dressed like we are both from another time, long faded from the collective's memory, yet unforgotten by the two of us. 

Old souls?

This mandala of mine, it has too many stories. It feels as though I will never fully connect with words, what it is to have known so many, who are no longer moored here. 

The Great Place?

Take me there.

I am okay with the washing away of these things. Unknowing it all and beginning anew. 

The purpose of a mandala is not to be beautiful, so as to distract, but to be the weave of stories we have no duty to write. In the beginning will always be the word.

Knowing you makes me comfortable, I'm not clutching at the finite anymore.  Blow winds. 

These wordy grains of mandala sand are light. My heart says all is well, with letting go.