Sometimes I write to try to figure something out
I hadn’t understood before, that somebody else has said.
I’ve no idea what “the divinity within” might mean,
And yet I’ve heard it said so often that it must mean something
Everyone recognizes, whether they know what
it really means or not.
It could mean we’re created in God’s image, if there were one,
Though I think it makes more sense the other way around,
Which is what I hope that Emerson and my mother had in mind.
It’s not just that the supernatural makes no sense, and that the world
Is real enough without it. It’s that each ordinary life
seems at the same time
So miraculous it has to be divine, whatever that divinity might be.
Why do we think we’re something other than we are?
Look at the stars,
Or else don’t bother, since there’s nothing there to see. You realize
They’re there, and yet you can’t imagine what the worlds
that they sustain
Could be like, or if those worlds exist, though
there must be billions of them.
How could those lives be anything like ours, with its
private sense of time
And memories that speak to me alone, like Sally’s hair?
Of course the inability
To feel them doesn’t mean they can’t be real, but what
does real even mean
When it’s applied to things we can’t begin to understand?
I understand this life,
At least I think I do. But how can a life that doesn’t have
this sense of self
Or the past or poetry, even if it’s written in the stars,
be one that speaks to me?
Perhaps instead of being part of something
too immense to understand
Or inhabiting an expanding multiverse in which every
possibility is realized
And equally real, each person’s life might be in some sense
all there is,
Whatever that might mean. I know it sounds absurd,
but it isn’t any more
Ridiculous than all those narratives of God I grew up
trying to believe.
What makes a life divine isn’t its perfection or its power,
but its estrangement
From the world and the reflection of itself in all it sees.
I wish I understood
What people mean by an eternal life. I only know that
mine is singular,
Complete and coextensive with the transitory universe
that it contains—
As though it were like God’s and comprehended everything,
but small.
有時我寫作，是為了弄清那些我以前未曾理解的道理，
那是別人說過的。
我不知道“內在的神性”究竟指什麽，
但我聽過這句話太多次了，似乎它一定蘊含某種意義，
無論人們是否真正理解，它總能引發共鳴。
它或許意味著我們按上帝的形象被創造，若真有上帝的話，
不過我覺得反過來理解更合理，
我希望愛默生和我的母親也這樣認為。
並不是說超自然毫無道理，或者世界本身
已經足夠真實，不需要超自然的介入。更重要的是，每個平凡的生命
看起來如此奇跡般地神聖，無論那神性究竟是什麽。
為何我們總認為自己是別的什麽存在？仰望星空吧，
或者不妨放棄，因為那里其實無物可見。你知道
它們在那里，但你無法想象那些星星所承載的世界會是什麽模樣，
或那些世界是否存在，盡管它們必定有數十億個。
那些生命怎會像我們的生命？我們擁有時間的私人感知，
和只對我一人低語的記憶，比如薩莉的發絲。
當然，無法感知並不意味著它們不真實，但當“真實”這個詞
應用於我們無法理解的事物時，它究竟意味著什麽？
我理解這生命，至少我自認為理解。
但一種沒有自我、沒有過去、沒有詩意的生命，
即便它被寫在星星之間，又怎能與我產生共鳴？
或許，與其說我們是無法理解的龐大整體的一部分，
或者身處一個所有可能性都已實現且同樣真實的膨脹多元宇宙，
不如說每個人的生命在某種意義上就是全部，
無論這意味著什麽。我知道這聽起來很荒唐，
但它並不比那些我童年時試圖相信的上帝故事更離奇。
使生命神聖的，不是它的完美或力量，而是它對世界的疏離，
以及它在所見一切中的自我倒影。
我真希望我能理解人們所說的永生究竟指什麽。
我只知道，我的生命是獨一無二的，
完整的，且與它所包容的短暫宇宙同樣廣闊——
仿佛它像上帝的生命一樣理解一切，然而卻渺小。