In a room of pregnant women,
I want to shout warning,
words of preparation
for those soon to be born.
This is what awaits you,
this if you’re lucky,
peace on the surface,
but down deep,
confusion and chaos.
You will carve choice after choice
out of ice and wood, finite fixes,
exposed to the teeth of time.
If you are unlucky,
nothing but infinite fixed forms.
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What kind of warning or advice would you offer to those about ready to be born?
The best scenario I would wish them was a life tranquil enough so they would not
be hard pressed with issues of survival. Given relief from practical affairs, they
would have time and energy to pursue philosophical questions. They would learn
that no form is firmly fixed. No finite answer will be fit to tackle an infinite question.
They will be called upon to make many choices but the choices, like wood and ice
will not be permanent. As the philosopher Heraclitus noticed over 2,500 years ago,
everything is in flux. All forms flow.
If the soon-to-be born discover a world of rigid fixed forms, they will be considered
unlucky. Growth and creativity would not be necessary.
The word ‘fix’ holds several meanings. It is a verb meaning ‘to repair’ –
it is a verb meaning ‘to hold in place’ – it is a noun meaning a ‘dangerous
situation’, a ‘mess’. or a ‘jam’. “We are in a real fix.” All three meanings
are at work in this poem.