Crawling across the leaf of a glorious yellow lily, I stopped to listen to what the great voice was saying nearby. When it spoke, I shivered, the deepness buried beneath time. My wings reverberated to the musical tone as I held on to the leaf tightly.
With most of my eyes I saw only shadows and light, no form before me other than the flowers and trees; only a hint of moving harmony, a wave in rhythm to the chords of a piano. A soprano serenade danced in the background, cheerfully rising and falling like rain. Soft, loud; almost a symphony spoken softly, then forcefully.
But the words…the words stopped my heart from beating, I froze as the question came from another direction; one I couldn’t see on the other side of the lily.
“How did you do it?”
I waited, holding my breath, cleaning my front legs, ready to spring if things got scary, and heard this:
“How do you tell your fingers to type a story?
How do you tell the paintbrush where to fall?
How do you know when you’re happy?
How did you feel when I answered your call?”
The other voice remained silent, thinking about his answer. Then he said,
“I don’t know, my brain does it.”
“Well, there ya go.”
I sat there for a moment laughing to myself, I’d wondered so often how the world began. I’d prayed that after my death I would finally get to ask God how He did it. But to understand God, and what His brain must be like: is like asking a cornflake to figure out where the milk came from.
It was like an awakening for me; time to stop wasting time wondering about things our tiny little brains will never understand. Even if it were explained to us, we’re still too unaware; obtuse, oblivious, and witless. At the incredibly slow rate our brains evolve, it could be billions of years before we reach that level of consciousness.
So I flew away, smiling to myself, and headed for the next bunch of flowers, peonies, I believe they’re called.