To Chaos

“In particular, the forward direction of time is determined by the movement of order to disorder….What we call the future is the condition of increasing mess; what we call the past is increasing tidiness.” --Alan Lightman

Inevitable disorder. As long as there is time, disorder is the Bethlehem we are all slouching towards. The center never holds.

In winter, this seems easy to believe. Ahead of me, bare trees scratch the air and as I approach, they grow larger, I grow smaller beneath them. The grass has browned and died. 

A friend’s mother has died. He has to wake up and remember it, again. Yes, the past is tidy. We have the photos to prove it. Smiling. Maybe we didn’t see the order last year, ten years ago, thirty years ago, but it’s crystal clear now.

And we keep moving, the messy wake behind us; some days shattered and glinting, others slowly dissolving, others still sleeping on the couch. We tiptoe past them, out the front door. We get in the car and drive. No map. Just cash.

If we can’t avoid the chaos, if it is the only state we drive to, then let us take the scenic route. Drive me me out of this winter landscape. Let's stumble, tired and road weary, out of the car when we reach summer again, when it seems as though the winter never happened. Leaves crowd the trees again and windflowers sing their colors. 

We won’t call it order this time, not again. And we will stop insisting. And we will let it fall apart. Fall away. The birds sudden break from the tree, the dark scatters against the blue.