The dreamed man opens your hand;
into it he sprinkles something,
closes your fist and says, “This is Mundi.”
Here, in your hand is Mundi
and Mundi is the earth, the cosmos, everything.
You have a little pinch of everything in your hand.
Separate yourself if you can.
Now I ask you
where is your tiny self with all its fears and irritations?
Where is your desire for the next pair of shoes,
the next piece of art, the next love, the next lust?
Where are your concerns
of war and peace, of living and dying,
joy, your friend’s joy,
pain, your friend’s pain,
politicians and their hollow words?
I ask you, what are these things,
what are all these separate things,
in your hand
Here in your hand are your ancestors, your neighbour,
your daughter, your daughter’s daughter,
all the ages of man, Venus of Willendorf, crones and bones.
You hold in your hand the nervous magpie bearing worm.
You hold in your hand the rain and next year’s rain,
the dust blowing over the deserts,
the very earth spewing rock and that rock
flowing like blood down mountainsides of its own creation.
You hold the spark of life,
the myriad beings, the seed, the tree,
the fragile microcosm of the cell,
photosynthesis, the sun, the sun, the great sun.
For Mundi is the heavens also,
is the earth rolling through blankness carrying you and your handful.
It is silent space out to the edges of nowhere,
contained in all time from the beginning-without-end
and the end birthing beginnings – forever, forever.
God-dust it is, right here, in your hand.
Come now, would you baulk?
Would you baulk when
this little bit of Mundi in your hand is
is all you have ever loved?
You have to take the large with the small;
just because you are afraid is no reason to deny it.
What will you name it?
The first spark of light,
the first-ever nudge of movement.
It is the almost-silent reverberating first word.
It is the beginning. It is the end.
It is that there is no beginning and no end.
And I ask you, how do you put it down?
For it is Mundi
and there is a sprinkle of it
in your hand.