Fire for Legos

2024.07.03

Good morning, that wonderful way.

At it again. And here we are.

The past is a box of Lego blocks. One by one we redirect, rebuild.
Every morning, we refashion them to meet our story's expectations of our identity.

Some blocks we're fond of, others we could do without. But all are necessary until we discover other ways of compiling the structure we call our self.

It's good metaphor, at least. It leaves out the soul, though. The soul is that which assembles the pieces. The spark that has the thought, that's our soul.

We think, we breathe, and something directs that, something makes that go.
That's the soul.

The fire in the heart that restarts it's beat every moment.
Not the fuel, the fire that lights it.

I could be writing about the sunrise, last night's sunset, a dog watching for squirrels, an epic adventure with dragons and magic, or solving humanity's social dilemmas.

But, this morning, is for that power that makes the writing possible, that makes living possible, that engineer that adds the fuel, that ignites, that presses the ignition switch, that hits the light switch that lights us up.

Our personal hand of the divine that keeps us going, that places and replaces each Lego.