From Scattered Seeds of Thought

Birthdays

When does birth begin -- is it at that moment when one cries, or laughs, or becomes aware of what life really means?

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Birthdays

I don’t understand about birthdays.
They’re artificial.
At what point does life really start?
Where does one pinpoint the horizon,
The chalk dust in the pavement,
The starter’s lineup
The number zero,
The first crack in the egg . . .

Was it the moment one's mother discovered?
Was it when the father and she . . .
Never mind about that.
Was it when one was named,
Or designed or envisioned,
Or parents finally decided to . . .
Or when they announced it to the world,
Or when one was finally released into oxygen,

Perhaps it arrived at that first rage
When one felt cold air and loneliness
Even if that birthly arrival
Was decidedly full of tears and protests.
Or could it be that we're all still being birthed
Each day?

Maybe life cannot really start
Until we take that first step,
That trembling, baby step toward
The moment when we truly see
That this is life:
What it's intended to be,
What it’s all about,
Where the horizon is,
And the chalk dust in the pavement,
The starter’s lineup,
The number zero,
The first crack in the egg . . .

Maybe, that is
The true birthday,
The moment
When awareness
Finally arrives
And one sees that
One is truly
Free to
Become.

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