Relaxed around the Christmas table, warm, replete,
all the time in the world to think of bigger things,
we are the privileged ones.
“There are different kinds of Infinity,” my son said.
His brother’s face reflects my own disbelief.
But isn’t Infinity infinity?
Eager, my son jumped up and drew a number line on the dining room chalkboard.
“The Infinite set of all numbers between zero and one
is larger than the Infinite set of all whole numbers,” he insisted.
How can this be?
Surely it is impossible,
a definite boundary,
the boundary beginning with zero and ending in one,
is no boundary at all.
It is both and.
.
.
I like to think that Love is Infinite.
At least some Love is, the cynical part of me whispers, but
Other people hoard something they call Love, yet . . .
Are there different kinds of Love?
That boundary I find impossible to scale,
that wall I build between me and the other,
can Love expand, fill it up and move beyond,
a limitlessness existing within imposed limits?
Easier to understand what is finite, within lines, boxed, defined.
We are primed to expect scarcity —
The beginning and ending of a life,
the last brownie in the pan,
a few dollars in the bank account,
Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches in a terrarium,
laughing together as we pull mystery gifts from stockings,
this is what we know.
We speak of Infinity and Love
as if they can be defined and explained.
We do the same with Truth
and Paradox.
My tongue cannot speak of these things,
my lips unable to form their shape,
They are beyond the veil
but I divine their presence,
an umbilical cord connecting me to
Whom I came from,
who confined Himself to flesh and blood,
to the margins of zero and one,
yet human life could not restrain
Her
He showed Herself to be
Infinity, Love, Truth, Paradox
with a beating heart, dusty feet, gentle hands,
a tired sigh,
so ordinary to the naked eye
with the vibrations of extraordinary
for the attuned ear.
This is also what I know —
If my Love feels small and limited,
let’s say that on a scale of 0 to 10,
I feel caught between zero and one.
And yet,
perhaps,
maybe
my stingy, narrow Love
is also boundless and all-encompassing,
as beyond comprehension
as Infinity between zero and one.
Prairie Sings 