SUN AND BUGS
So many a-bugs congregate beneath the lights of street lamps
Believing it to be their sun
Little do they know, that another
Rests 10 feet away
With a separate population
But all the street lights shine brilliantly
Beneath a vibrant half moon
Illuminating the sky
And all bugs that reside beneath each street lamp
Are in love with the same bright light
That lies within an even greater light, the moon
And that, to me, is God
The lighting of street lamps
And the shining of the moon
And it all exists so perfectly together
Without any streetlight having anything to do with the moon
And any bug interfering with the light except to bask in it
Because the unity underlying all life
Is that we all seek to bask in the light
With out ever really knowing
Whether or not the same light
Rests 10 feet away
Nature of Light
Everything is Cyclical
There is a particular aspect of poetry that should, in the words of John Keats, “soothe and embolden the soul to accept mystery.” Poetry doesn’t always fill in every gap or make plain the story being told; much is open to interpretation. Sometimes the power of a poem evolves out of its mystery, much like music, which would not exist without its counterpart— silence.
I’m talking about bugs but I’m not really talking about bugs. The reference is there to start you out on a microcosmic level before expanding out and referencing the infinite. A population of bugs beneath a street lamp may seem as a world unto itself. But a population of bugs is intricately intertwined with countless other populations, some of which are servants to, perhaps, a more illustrious source of light.
The streetlamps are there to accredit a specific method, approach, or design to worship God. And although that naked truth is not directly stated, the allusion is to that of light— bringer of the divine, an envoy of awakening. The streetlamp is not divinity itself, but a conduit for divinity. As an example, organized religions are mediums for worship. Muslims may have a specific text to pay homage to, or have daily practices, all of which honor and glorify their interpretation of what is right and what should be exalted. And those practices and those texts may be very different for the Buddhist man who spends hours a day meditating or a Catholic woman who speaks with a priest to atone for her sins. But each and every one of those spiritual trajectories are magnificent in that they find beauty in the divine and purpose for it— divinity elevates the mundane and considers every process towards its discovery as sacred. In this respect, those who worship divinity all worship the same essence, which is why I say: “all bugs that reside beneath each street lamp are in love with the same bright light.”
The moon is there to play the part of a greater force, again suggesting the possibility of infinite layers of worship and indeterminable confines for divinity. And how do we know whether or not we are like bugs to a streetlamp, admiring what we refer to as our sun? There is no way to know, and that is the mystery. But isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it transcendent?
So if we are all in love with the same bright light, it should all exist so perfectly together. Without any streetlamp having anything to do with the moon. And no bug interfering with the light except to bask in it.