I recently saw a time lapse shot from NASA satellites.
A pause.
I wonder if you are able to pinpoint a single infinitismal whisper wafting through the air as the universe spins incessantly.
My voice is small.
The slow beat of my heart throb a dull thump.
I know so little of God because I know so little of my own heart, of this city, of this country, of this globe. I don’t understand the moon, let alone the flaming sun. I cannot name the stars in my own galaxy. And the clusters of distant glowing stars and space dust are enigmas to me.
The universe is big. So big that it irritates my tiny mind to consider all of it.
Pegasus.
Andromeda.
Pisces, Aries, Triangulum.
So you hold the universe in your hand? Your hands must be bigger than I had previously considered. Your mind must be warehouses of harddrives and switches to understand it. Your heart must be full to care for it.
Yet, strangely, the details matter to you.
I am looking up right now. The Manila sky is overcast. But beyond the cloud cover, the sun is a vibrant flame invisible to my eyes. I am looking at the sky right now. The expanse of it comforts and confuses me.
It reminds me of open Arizona skies. Pink and gold sunsets seem to bend eternal to the curve of the atmosphere.
It reminds me of the dull grays of Kunming skies, and the many sunrays puncturing through the cloud cover. The blues are brilliant just south of the clouds in Yunnan.
It reminds me of the contrasts of lush green landscape and azure of Myanmar as I secretly snuck across the border to translate for Time Magazine. It was a serene landscape but for the child soldiers and an excess of AK-47s.
The sky alone makes me think, “as far as the east is to the west, so great is your love for me.” The universe overwhelms me with your extravagant mercy.
I am a dot on the busy canvas.
I am a detail between the colors.
I just want to know that my whisper matters; my heart cry is heard; my churning heart has a home.
A pause.
I whisper a prayer to you again. Be with me. Right here. I need you. And I hear nothing in return but the passing of the LRT train, a honking taxi, footsteps of 16 million people, and ongoing construction.
But peace is with me. I feel you. I think I hear your presence in the slow beat of my own heart, as if you are telling me that I am an integral part of your storyline.
I am but a brushstroke in your masterpiece of the universe and me. And I think I feel you say, “My piece needs you. Every brushstroke matters.”
