[Proprioceptive writing after recitation of Nothing Wants to Suffer, by Danusha Laméris. 04/15/2015] Ensconced in our canopies, our eyes looking out at each other but also at our selves our self. If God were a fly would we each be an eye? an eye ensconced in the canopy of the fly-- The God? Yet we live as the stars, lofty and beyond reach, looking out at each other as if we were alone separate unsure of where and when we entered and of how we will return return to each other. If, though, we knew. If we knew that we were God God looking out of many eye would we then know to be tender? I cannot assume it would be so because, it seems, we do. Or, at least, we have been told. And yet we suffer at each others’ hands because our eyes are ensconced in their canopies. Lofty, and beyond reach. The other day, I ate a chicken. A half a chicken to be exact. And it was good. But I wondered about the chicken and if I were the chicken tender in the mouth and then the stomach of another, my eyes no longer discernible, my flesh digestible and becoming. Eternity. What eyes and flesh am I made of besides the chicken, I mean? Or are we all just God repurposing God’s self God’s flesh God’s stardust born of a conscious collection of chicken flesh and maybe a salad, or accidental mealy worm lost in a container of softness dumped with care and covered, born and disconnected again grown by the suffering of others and taken by yet others to a cross taken then to a container where, for a while, we are lost in the softness of dark until we are accidentally or on purpose consumed, and grown through the suffering of others and made to suffer before rising again as the eye of God? He said to us, when he was yet chicken flesh and mealy worm consumed but not yet consuming, that we were gods, that we were in him and he was in us, and that when we loved him we loved each other and each other him. When I look in your eye am I looking back at I? And you, at you? And us and we. And now —NOW— we are One? But the earth has eyes, too, and the stars, all of them. Yet a speck we are in the eye. The eye that blinks. My point, though, is that my dog sleeps next to me and also has eyes. As does the tree outside the window. And the leaf. And the leaf as a leaf is seen through the eye as a leaf not as an eye much less the eye of God. And so I forget to love you and you and you. And thus forget to love God. Must, asks I, the distinctions the ensconcement of leaf as leaf, eye as eye, star as star exist? Would there be existence without ensconcement, without being contained and placed in a gestalt? And, if so, does the distinction of other from other necessitate suffering? Once God has many eyes once God is a complete set of gestalts incomplete, or, rather, when and as God takes on many eyes within God’s self, is there thus and therefore suffering as the separation is created like a knife to the flesh of a chicken? And, if so, could the reverse also be true? Is that what Jesus came to say? That if we knew (and we can know) that the half of a chicken that I have eaten is the me that will be consumed to be you or maybe another chicken or simply the dirt from which the tree grows? If we knew this, would we experience suffering as knowing and less like suffering? Or would we just suffer gladly? Seeing with our eyes ensconced in their canopies of flesh and bone that suffering was becoming or becoming was suffering and thus gladness and joy lost in the beauty of hardness of the containers of today but maybe not tomorrow? If I were to lose all my religion but for one small act performed earnestly and with discipline it would be grace— saying grace— for the chicken, for its life that is to be my life with its eyes out of which God sees You. and Me. and God.