Happy Birthday my sweet baby boy. I love and miss you. The years pass, but…
If I were a painter,
then I would blend the colors of
the Ben I knew
into an abstraction of a
and, in the varying impasto textures
[I would close my eyes and rub my fingers across the canvas to feel him once more.]
and misshapen strokes,
with infinite colors, I would portray
a truth beyond (the Ben I knew),
so you would See
the mind of God.
But, I am not a painter.
If I were a physicist, then I would diagram life, and death, down to the most fundamental (particle) and the nothing that is left but energy in the soil;
[I would rest (un)assured that he was here, and then he was nowhere.]
reproduce equations supporting a theory that You and I (and my love for the Ben I knew) are mere electrochemical reactions of the brain; draw pictures to explain why one perceived truth is not all truths; discuss how the past, present, future are only illusions of an ever-present Now that simply Is; lecture on string theory and the vibrations that guide the harmony of the universe back to a moment (after the moment) of time zero. but there will always be a spacetime of the infinitesimal that no formula can reach, leaving room for an unknown variable, which we do not know now, but one day We Will. [And, I would falter at the “one day We Will.”] The theory of everything, (one day). Then, you would Be the mind of God.
But, I am not a physicist.
If I were a composer,
then I would produce a symphony that resonated with the intensity of a
which the heart (carrying my love for the Ben I knew) would feel, but the mind
would not grasp,
and in the rise and fall of the composition, the depth of sorrow and lightness of hope,
you would Hear
the mind of God,
and overtones created by [real hands plucking] strings would speak of the most fundamental (lesson) -
the harmony of
[I would Be Still and allow the vibrations to soothe my aching heart.]
But, I am not a composer.
If I were a pastor,
then I would stand high (above you) and
preach with a calming cadence of reassurance,
like the waves of an ocean,
my words so that Faith would seep into your body,
and you would have hope that
who gave his only son to save You
from the sins of humanity.
And, [listen closely]
if you accept this only truth, then
ThereIsAHeaven were your soul will reside
(with the Ben I knew).
But, if not…. [I would falter at the “if not,” thinking of other sons, of mothers with other truths.]
And, since you can never Know the mind of God,
for it is far too great,
you must rely on your Faith,
one day it fails,
[your son was there, and then he was gone, too]
and you need to See, Hear, Know ThereIsAHeaven,
But, I am not a pastor.
If I were enlightened,
then I would teach you how to attain
Awareness of the most fundamental (truth)
of a Now
with no thought, but all-knowing,
with no You, but all-Being,
so that, when the (less than a) moment comes
of death and the Calmness of [un]reality falling away,
[I would imagine the Ben I knew and his hands reaching for the Light.]
you would be Free.
And, you would learn there is
no mind (to Know)
of a God,
and therefore no soul.
But, my heart would feel the soul of the Ben I knew,
in the sun,
songs of bluebirds
[so, I would falter at the “no soul.”]
But, I am not enlightened.
If I were a writer, then I would create a new language to express the love hate joy pain grief beauty of Life of losing of what comes next but always was and is, of becoming Real and [not] Knowing or Seeing or Hearing (but some greater universal sense) of being by, inside, amongst the mind of God.
But, I am even not a writer,
for I can create no language
with lines, dots, letters, sentences
that would let you
hear the color blue (of his eyes),
see the sound (of his voice),
touch his reflection,
understand the Wholeness of an image from its mere shadow,
return the energy (I feel Now) into the matter (I held Then), or
merge the love hate joy pain grief beauty of Life of losing
the Ben I knew.
I have only
the emptiness of an “o,”
the punctuation of [no]thing
the space between the (he was here) and then (he was everywhere),
and the rhythmic pulse of
a symphony of strings [being plucked by, inside, amongst the mind of God]
carry an unknown variable, of
the calming cadence of ThereIsAHeaven [for other sons, of mothers with other truths too],
and the soul of the Ben I still know,
for he is all-Being in
songs of bluebirds.