Story of Light

Story of Light

They say that light sprouted like a seed
from the dark soil of the Big Bang.

Slow to emerge, it shone to crescendo,
then scattered itself to black winds.

Like a pappus blown, cypsela spread,
it stretches now, milky limbed,
across the velvet void,

while we below are blown about,
specks of dust—
we used to shine
so bright.  

Photo by Rob Musson on Unsplash

The Prompt

Though I live on a farm, the night sky around my home is lit more by the neighboring cities than it is by the stars. Nothing makes me happier than to spend a night in a truly dark place, beneath a clear sky. This past week, I spent a night in the Red River Gorge and was treated to a view of the Milky Way, which made me burst into spontaneous giggles and squeals of delight. The poem emerged the next morning, as I sipped coffee under the same (then blue) sky.

I never tire of remembering that we’re made of stardust. Stars—what could be vaster, more gorgeous, more amazing!? Dust—what could be smaller, more mundane, less significant!? The contrast of these two lives inside each of us.

This makes me think of a quote from a rabbi that I heard about on a podcast once. What rabbi? What podcast? I don’t remember. But I punched in the words that stuck in my head, and unless the Internet is lying (it does that sometimes), the quote is from Rabbi Simcha Bunam Bonhart of Przysucha, who died in 1827, and it goes like this:

“Everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on the need. When feeling lowly and depressed, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: “For my sake was the world created.” But when feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: “I am but dust and ashes.”

If you’d like a prompt to play with today, then I invite you to reflect on this quote. Reflect on your dual identity as star and dust. Reflect on your infinitude and your finitude. Imagine one of these in your left pocket and the other in your right. Which pocket does your hand reach for more readily? Why? What do you find there? How does that version of the truth serve you—or serve the people/systems around you?

What would it be like to reach for the other pocket more often instead? What stories are tucked inside it? What possibilities? What hopes or fears?

Is there a pocket big enough to hold both of these truths at once? What does that look or feel like?

Is this all feeling a little too abstract for you? Well, then here’s a more concrete prompt you can play with, too: pockets. Write a poem about a pocket.

Whatever you write about, I would love to read it! Thank you for being here.