My mind keeps moving between these two ideas:
The poet John Donne said “No man is an island.
The Buddha said, “Every man has an island within.”
If separated, do two objects ever long for one another? Does the owl cookie jar miss the hollow witch with her plastic apple and pipe cleaner worm? Why do I still mourn for those unwanted thrift store clothes, so eager and ugly that wait slump-shouldered on the rack?
I wonder if animals in the spirit world ever muse on the fates of their bodies. Does the cow ponder his skull and think: “Better my head be used as a ceremonial mask to conjure dreams than being painted turquoise and bolted to a steak house wall where it inhale through the stone canyons of its nostrils, the memory scent of its own burning flesh.”Does the turtle find wonder in the shell reborn as ceremonial rattle? Is initiation into “the sacred” preferable to being sold as an overpriced bohemian “curio”?
Or does the very concept of horn, skull and tailbone feel impossibly quaint to them
in those meadows where they move like happy shadows?