Inspiration for the Day
[if you haven't already, you must read this] BIRTHS
We will never have any memory of dying.
We were so patient about our being, noting down numbers, days, years and months, hair, and the mouths we kiss, and that moment of dying we let pass without a note-- we leave it to others as memory, or we leave it simply to water, to water, to air, to time. Nor do we even keep the memory of being born, although to come into being was tumultuous and new; and now you don't remember a single detail and haven't kept even a trace of your first light.
It's well known that we are born.
It's well known that in the room or in the wood or in the shelter in the fisherman's quarter or in the rustling canefields there is a quite unusual silence, a grave and wooden moment as a woman prepares to give birth.
It's well known that we were all born.
But of that abrupt translation from not being to existing, to having hands, to seeing, to having eyes, to eating and weeping and overflowing and loving and loving and suffering and suffering, of that transition, that quivering of an electric presence, raising up one body more, like a living cup, and of that woman left empty, the mother who is left there in her blood and her lacerated fullness, and its end and its beginning, and disorder tumbling the pulse, the floor, the covers till everything comes together and adds one knot more to the thread of life, nothing, nothing remains in your memory of the savage sea which summoned up a wave and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree
The only thing you remember is your life.
-- Pablo Neruda, Fully Empowered