Think about the title of this post. It is a line from the poem below by Marianne Boruch. To be honest, I am not at all sure about the meaning of that line in the context of the poem; I'd rather think about it's meaning in the context of my life...
"deep in a life is another life"
There are a few ways to take that line. I want to consider one...
Here's what I am thinking... I am "known" by people to the degree that I present "myself" to them. To a few perceptive people, I am known even beyond my presentation. Deeper still, I know myself. In one sense, that is me, or rather...that is my "life." But that knowledge is by no means complete, nor is it necessarily accurate. And it is certainly not a static thing... it changes, it's fluid, and it's evolving. Even now, as I am approaching adulthood (well, let's say...middle age... umm...OK...maybe even beyond middle age)... (Maybe I had it right to begin with...maybe I am just approaching adulthood.) Where was I?... OK... this life deep inside this life of mine is coming to fruition... it is a unique and precious thing... stripped of distortions and delusions and protections and fears, (especially fears) I have this "life" this "essence" deep within. This life within is quite possibly where I am in union with God. Could it be the place where, as Paul says, "I no longer live, but Christ lives in me"? I am just scratching the surface here. I am and have always been so full of fear and self-protection that this essence of "self" has been barely, if at all, visible... When I went through my ordeal with cancer, there was a moment or two when maybe I got a little closer... there were also times when I was most certainly far from it... but, I really want to hook-up with that place... there is a sense of urgency... I am more aware than ever that my days are numbered. There is a longing... for what? Maybe it is a longing to be "home" and maybe that is where ultimately that life deep within fully emerges. In the meantime, I sometimes feel it's presence and it's call. And it's "intricate pleasure." And it's peace.
I walked out, and the nest
was already there by the step. Woven basket
of a saint
sent back to life as a bird
who proceeded to make
a mess of things. Wind
right through it, and any eggs
long vanished. But in my hand it was
intricate pleasure, even the thorny reeds
softened in the weave. And the fading
leaf mold, hardly
itself anymore, merely a trick
of light, if light
can be tricked. Deep in a life
is another life. I walked out, the nest
already by the step.