One thing my biologist friend taught me is about migrations. He suggested, and I agree, that the landscape itself can hold memory, much like neurons do. A migrating hummingbird’s brain may be the size of a pea, but its capabilities are far larger than that. The key insight is that individuals have boundaries, yet those boundaries are more fluid than we often assume. In many ways, I am more than the sum of my parts.
In fact, why not get poetic. Here’s a poem I wrote about the fact that we are more than the sum of our parts, and less than. Really, this encapsulates what I’m saying about evolution in poem.
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Winter Dies
Winter dies and my black walnut traces over the morning light with ink,
Scribbling its long life history across the sky.
Lacking leaves, vacant and void,
Is it not the sum of all its parts,
Yet bound to earth, to air, and to spring-yet-come?
Soon, and very soon,
Buds and blossoms,
Green and greatness,
Quiet explosion upon the heavens
Will come.
What dark tracery am I upon the heavens and earth?
Which parts of the sum am I forgetting?
What “I am” am I?
Can I choose from any grocery aisle, top or bottom?
Let’s see.
Am I the one who is sickly,
Ugly,
Angry,
Crazy,
Abused,
Broken,
Foolish,
Addicted,
Unlovable,
The one who people ignore?
Why didn’t you just tell me to stay away from aisle 13?
Am I the one who comes at lightning speed when others are attacked?
Am I gorgeous, gay, grandiose, the grandstander?
Shall I ask at the counter for a pack of ‘the one who smokes on the porch’?
When did I stop being nervous, anxious, and weird?
When did I choose to be a frequent visitor to aisle 5?
Check-out Lady, please scan a small box of
Genius,
Gentile,
Judicious,
Gypsy,
And please return the jerk to aisle 15.
My walnut’s cupboard holds a storehouse well-disguised:
Night roost,
Spider webs,
Warbler’s perch,
Desk,
Cabinet,
Lazy place for us?
Long before me, water cracked my walnut’s inky hull.
The sun drew my walnut out of itself
higher,
Taller,
bolder,
To flex in the strong, wild winds.
What bulb-lined vanity mirror drew me from my hull?
Him, her, Ad Industry, Sum of All Fears,
Scrolling without any destination?
Dad, Mom, DNA?
To no fault of its own, my walnut stays put, bulging at the lawn,
Trapped by power lines and asphalt.
To what “I am” am I bound?
Don’t pass me any new chains.
Undress me,
De-skin me,
Break me,
“Tear down that wall,”
Depoliticize me,
Lose and loose my religion.
I am more than the sum of all my parts,
And less than.
Lick me clean, Aslan. My dragonskin itches terribly.
To no fault of their own, they come, every few years.
Men, with tall cherry pickers and chainsaws rip a bite out of my walnut, and me,
To keep the power on. Progress. Yup.
Prune me against any new trend,
Fad,
Lust,
Tattoo,
Shroud,
Branding,
Higher high,
Cloistered life,
Her story, not mine.
Yet build me up,
“For I am Yours and You are mine.”
Father, write my poem, make it say:
I am a child of God.
Take off my old,
Put on your new.
“I no longer live,
But Christ lives in me.”