Do not think that asking a question of life entails “having” a condition that would “explain” that desire to put life to the question. We are not sick or not-sick, not healthy or not-healthy, for we are not your problem. Hard now, jutting skyward, pink and pregnant, their flowers soon to unfold like a marvel.ĭo not blanket us with sick talk. Yet we have also known, like a convalescent awaking to his strength, the magnolia buds. We have known darkness, known the black and purplish moods, have held converse with the night. We are grave, also serene we are fraught, also light. On the contrary, we are the ensouled animals of life. It is also a glory.Īsking the question of life, putting life to the question, does not make us, we the rare brave inquirers, we the fellow seekers into a problem. How can I live in life? How can my life be at one with life? This is a marvel. Life enjoins me to inquire into its livability, life itself is invited to answer for its own suitability. In this space, my life is put to the question. This space cuts a cicatrice across the social order, cuts me off from it, marvels me, this godsend.
But now life, itself the subject and object of the question, poses the question to itself: “How can I say Yes to life? What would make life into a Yes? Oh what is being asked of me?” Life, before being brought into question, had been stuffed with periods, the tedium of periods, the slumber of dogma.
If life is brought into question, then life has been carried forth into a space in which it is now open to inquiry.
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