Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I went traipsing through my memories like drifts of snow. Air and water and boots. When my boots were small I sled down the snowy slopes and my eyes shone; before the world bullied and insisted dreams were built of air and water and boots weren’t made of wizard dust. When did the world get serious, or, when did I make it so? They did not know, and I forgot too, that the game was the play we were meant to make, and the snows were built of stuff singing hallelujah. The flakes fell from the sky and my wand ushered them downward. I remember them, faintly, falling down.
These are all texts that begin with the phrase “Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience.” I wrote using this prompt for 50 consecutive days.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I see thousands of shapes like snow falling, blurred marks on my eyes. She once told me about the Land of Fuzzies, where she played with her mother as a child. I wonder where I was then; was I even then on my way to meet her? They were dandelions, their seeds on the wind.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I see the snow of yesterday and the snow that fell the day before, and I wonder about the man who helped me see it all differently. I cannot tell you his name; I do not have enough words here to describe who he was entirely. I only say he saved my life. He showed me how to live and he showed me how to live with myself and he said there were no limits to any of that. I haven’t been a great friend to that man these past few years, that man who saved my life, and I am sorry. My eyes well up as I think of what an ass I am, how my fear and arrogance led to such a separation. I won’t make this into some bigger thing, like this is how the world is today or something; how arrogant that would be, again, of me. I am beginning to see how I avoid the closest things to me, how I judge and think stupid the tender-most parts, and I suffer this hardness. He is too close. He was my friend and he was like my father. Simply I must say that I love him. I thank the universe tonight for his presence way back when, and his presence even now on my mind, even though it saddens. Because even if what I have done weighs so heavily on me, though I exaggerate it, still I know he was at least there. He will always remain.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I see the snow of yesterday; some of it remains today on the ground. I could write a loose metaphor of that, how the past moves with us, but honestly when I read similar statements from others, I am bored by them, and when they say such things, I question whether they know anything at all. I aspire to be direct and simple. And when I describe flowers, may my remarks not reflect my own self-centered ego, but shine a direct and clear light upon them. I am tired of I. I wish to say to the world how the world is, which seems a more beautiful way, or at least, a more sincere and authentic way.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, all of those days, I never saw what tomorrow was to bring. I strove and strained to see, to control what it would be. When I could not, I waited anxiously, sometimes in dread, sometimes in hope. But no matter what I did, what I felt, what I intended or yearned for, tomorrow came as it wanted. Today, it snowed.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, it took me longest to uncover my anger. It hid from me longer than any other emotion. It seems the first-born child of Fear. And it seemed to harm me the most, perhaps because it was the hardest to see.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I wonder how many things I said which were original to me. What in life isn’t plagiarized? How much of what I believe as ‘little special me’ is actually just what I was conditioned to be? I always thought my opinions so important and unique, but really, they world had heard all my opinions before.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I would give higher value to the questions I asked, than the answers. And it was the questions I never found answers to, the questions I gave up asking because I realized no answers were valid, that became the greatest discoveries.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, there were no prizes. If I ever won anything, it was so that eventually it could be taken away. If I might call anything a prize, it was that. I can think of nothing worth more than what I learned through loss.
Looking through the keyhole at my tiny experience, I can see how sometimes I presented myself falsely, though I didn’t mean to. Sometimes I said, ‘My peace is not dependent on the outside world,’ while being involved in some desperate attempt to attain something outside myself. Other times I said, ‘The only way I’ve found inner silence is to sit in silence,’ while living in distraction and never taking even a minute to sit with myself. I did not practice what I preached. I felt a fraud and hypocrite. Something did not sit correctly. My expression seemed ajar from my truth. Still, even concerning this, I see now how I had to express myself falsely and witness that falseness, before I could more clearly see my truth. Again I am reminded all roads lead here… There are moments in this life when time seems to pause and the space vibrates between me and you, and there is no more imagination, and all is alive and real and pure. I feel on the verge of crying, and I see the tears forming in your eyes too. A soft place, yet so strong. This is a rare thing. Yet it felt effortless, and only covered by a thin layer of my own disguises.