First, there is the great illusion,
teeming with the dust and rocks
of planets and stars and galaxies,
the vaster spaces of seeming
things, each spinning in its place,
evolving in a light cone of its own
distant now, declaiming
manifold and epic tales
on the grand stage,
without which the all
would not be what is
and could not become
what will be.
Second, there is the process
that creates the wonderment,
more profound and fundamental
than any seeming thing could ever be,
a ubiquitous, unremittingly recurrent
event that transmutes the possible
and resolves the probable
into broken, discontinuous,
irreversible moments,
outcomes that purge
every chance but one,
that take from the all
to make the many,
and from the many
take a moment
and make it one.
Third, there is the choice
that can never be unmade,
a seemingly random
selection, a leap, a whim,
an indeterminate decision
outside of cause or reason,
birthing unexpectedly
rebellious particles,
tiny freedom fighters
soaring unseen paths
to unforeseen destinations,
their mysterious appearances,
each as unlikely as each,
together forming precisely
the shape of a wave,
all as likely as all.
Fourth, there is the becoming,
the embrace of the unexpected,
the rolling of dice, the possible
meaning of the whole production—
illusion, process, choice—a drama
of probabilities, the grand
theatrical illusion enabling
what is to imagine what could be,
the determined wave steering
the plot precisely without measured
conviction, the choice injecting
mystery and happenstance
into every scene and act,
while the author watches
excitedly, marveling
at illusory moments,
the tattered script
almost forgotten,
riddled with omissions,
strikethroughs, placeholders,
each marking an unforeseen
turn of the plot, a dropped
line, a sudden improvisation—
because the all does not know all,
can see barely beyond the peaks
and troughs of the next wave,
a wave whose shape even
the most humble player
could alter with a decision,
a whim, a swerve that subtly
bends the arc as it converges
ineluctably on an ever evolving,
surprisingly dynamic mean.
Finally, there is only unity,
unbroken, undivided,
no lines, no separation,
only borderless connection
from the nearest here
to the most distant there,
for it is us and we are it,
one illusion, one process,
one choosing, one becoming,
and beneath, above, within,
infinite fields of everything
and nothing, the one all.
A liturgy of riddles
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What Might Be True 