The Witness

Every soul is a witness. We see at first our own life, where we can be the elemental observer without thought or emotion. We witness through a cloud of feeling and cognition, but it obscures the simple river of experience, the flow of what can be seen and heard and touched. We collect-images, events, stories. We hold, individually and collectively, light touching the Tigris at a wide bend, the feeling of wet clay spinning on the first flywheel, the sound of wind susurrant through an ancient corn field. 

Every soul is a witness. First for the self, and then for the other. The other needs to be seen; the love and pain mirrored, known. The soul is incomplete, untouched, its work caught in the limits of the “I” —without a witness.

The witness sees every fall, every getting up deepening what’s real because there’s more than one of us who carries it.