The Consequence of Breath

I once read that life is

merely a series of consequences

from events that started long

before any of us existed.

We only have the illusion of

control over our own life.

Millions of years ago, a fish jumped

up onto a primitive beach and took a

long, deep breath, and life

since then has been as a

consequence of that breath.

Setting in motion a series of machinations and

Rube Goldberg-esque contraptions,

all tipping and bobbling and whizzing

forward until one day it produced

you and your set of problems.

Every happy birthday,

every tragic death,

every paper-cut or trip to

the Moon, has been as a result

of that consequential breath.

We have no control over the stitching

together of these threads of life, woven

in a haphazard, luck of the draw,

sort of way. We abide this situation

and accept it as living.

The trick, I suppose, is to find

meaning within the consequences of

that breath. To treasure the joyful

accidents of friends, family and the

general goodwill we should share.

To learn from the mistakes of those

consequences and try to forget how

angry and unfair they were. How brutal

and fantastically tragic they might have been,

and to accept our inconsequential role in it all.  

It is our duty to take the next breath,

to exhale into the mists of consequence and

face the potentials, the problems, the price

with dignity, responsibility, and a crap ton of

self-deprecating humor.