I am not a believer. I don’t believe in god, and fate has never really held much allure for me, despite the fact that a former lover tried to convince me that fate had brought us together (note well: former). I do believe that the universe is infinite, random and chaotic, and that chaos and its randomness is what rules our lives.
That notion sustains me, but it was challenged recently when a good friend shared with me her recent email from her son. Suffice it to say that her son, a 25-year old, is much wiser and far more self-aware than almost any 25 year old I’ve ever known — including myself. Upon reading the email, and with tears in my eyes, I wondered what impact my friend and her husband had upon this truly unique son who is a gift to the world. My friend noted that parenthood is a “crap shoot” but she also was willing to say that perhaps her son was an old soul, one who had been around a while, and who had a chance to grow into himself, over those many lives.
The idea of reincarnation is fanciful to me and not one that I can ascribe to given my reliance upon science. However, science can’t answer all of life’s questions and in this case, I wonder, in a Whitman-esque way, if IB has become a part of a universe greater than himself. Perhaps it is really our poets, rather than our scientists, who have it right.
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.