Jacob's Brother

I used to despise the grinding roar of airplanes overhead,

the ones that disturbed my repose or interrupted my conversations.

But now. . . that sound, post 9-11, reassures me,

reminds me that everything is in place,

that all is as it ought to be--

Especially after the convergence of those draconian events

whose wellspring was hatred--

a hatred spawned long ago

dating from the days of Isaac

when his half-brother Ismael

(the elder of the two) and Ismael's mother

were driven out into the desert--

driven out to perish. . .

dating from the days of Jacob

when his twin brother Esau was robbed of

his treasured birthright. . .

dating from the days when one religion after another

fought for dominance and in so doing

provided the genesis for thousands of years,

hundreds of centuries, tens of decades

of "righteous," holy bloodshed,

of pillage, rampage, and Jihad, of holy war.

Does it really matter any more what we call it?!

Have we forgotten about those early sinful transgressions?

of Cain's committing fratricide?

Have we forgotten why?

Had not God, the original Father, rejected

the son, Cain's, gift to Him but

had compassion, nevertheless,

to send him out among a people with a mark,

yes, a glorious and undeniable mark, one that said,

"Do not touch my son! Grant him safe

harbor wherever he ventures

because not just he, but maybe I, the Father,

made an error!"

And what of Cain's parents?

Was there not also some blame to share there?

Was there not original disobedience whose penalty

was eternal punishment?

Or was that transgression meant to occur?

Was it inevitable? Was it predetermined?

Was not the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge--

a tree whose fruit invited early adventurers to

distant explorations whose consummation

is humanity's rainbow,

the tree, the fruit from which gave birth

to real heroes like David, yet heroes that

were nonetheless flawed,

of creators who gave us the dynamic wheel

and the plane (ah. . .the plane),

of music which touched the soul's very

depths--

a music whose tones fill our hearts

with melodies reminiscent

of a distant past,

of future possibilities,

of a spiritual grandeur,

of art with all its magnificence and infinite

dimensions whose strokes

reflect a real or imagined history

or foretell a future with

boundless prospects,

of artisans of the word,

producing a different kind

of eternal beauty--

its offspring? its prodigy?

the quill and ink whose lyrics

inspire the soul

and set it flying.

So our future, predestined or not, does allow for the human factor,

the input of mind and heart!

Where, then, do we find ourselves along the infinite continuum

the Father has created?

Is there to be a sudden, catastrophic silence, emptiness, vacuum

that fills up the remainder of linear space?

Is there yet time and opportunity to create a birth, a rebirth,

a renaissance, if you will, whose endgame

will return us to the path from which we somehow

errantly, unthinkingly wavered,

dangerously strayed?

Can flights of mind and not of machine take us back. . .and also forward?

Do we have the capacity, the fortitude, the commitment?

Are we deserving? Are we worthy?

Perhaps only we can determine that.

Time will tell. We shall see. . . . I like the rhythm of planes now.

Rosemary Jenkins

Saturday, 7 September 2013