If Each Day Falls

parasaurolophus
Originally uploaded by creaturetheatre

Why is it so hard to quantify likes and dislikes? And why isn't it enough to like or dislike something? I do think some people go through life without wondering why they feel a certain way, but I can't. My personality always want to know why and frequently looks inside instead of outside for the answers.

I like reptiles. Why? They remind me of dinosaurs. I loved dinosaurs when I was a kid. Can't you see me lope through Kroger like a hadrosaur? People must have thought that there was something very wrong with me--- or my mom for letting me do that.
I bought book after book, model after model. When my folks finally took me to DC to see fossils I was beside myself.
I don't know why I like dinosaurs, except that they're mysterious and exciting and so unreachable.

I have friends who don't like cats. They actually believe the cats are going to hurt them. It's a phobia and defies explanation.

I'm not wild about spiders. I respect them and leave them alone, but I was once bitten and since then I'm just not crazy about having them on me. (Or in my shoes, but that's a camping story and I'll save it for later.)

I have another friend who doesn't like birds. His folks used to take him to the park to feed the ducks and one of them grabbed his jacket and pulled on him. He freaked out thinking that he would fall into the water and drown. I wanted to know why it wasn't water he disliked. Fear of water is , well, maybe not rational exactly, but comprehensible. So, he loves water. He doesn't like ducks, or birds.

I wish I liked beans, but I don't. They're mushy. I like lots of other things that are mushy, but not beans. I used to take hours to swallow the few that my mom put on my plate. Childhood trauma (poor me).

I love poetry, but to pick a poem and say this one doesn't stir me and this one does-- that's nothing tangible. So we get to the point of all this. Pablo Neruda. I like his poetry.
I love this one:

If Each Day Falls

If each day falls
inside each night,
there exists a well
where clarity is imprisoned.
We need to sit on the rim
of the well of darkness
and fish for fallen light
with patience.
Pablo Neruda (Chilean, 1904-1973)
tr. William O'Daly

It's mysterious, exciting and the peace it hints at seems unreachable.

Drawing/Photo by Dave Haaz-Baroque