Mother Mutability and the Golden Egg

It broke my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion.... – A. Bartlett Giamatti.

It is always hard to describe the moment we first meet someone, anyone, really. I am absolutely sure that from the moment when we first lay eyes on a person, a person that might later become a good friend or a life partner, a spark of some sort goes off in the cosmic yards. Somewhere in the deep recess of the universe, a tiny speck of energy is regenerated for that single moment in time. Unfortunately for us little minds, there exists the cruelest mother of all, Mother Mutability. We find that we say “good-bye” before we say “hello.” Most of the time, change is so fast, we don’t say anything at all. And what remains unsaid never goes away.

There are times when I realize my mistakes do not “teach me a lesson.” How is it that after laying a massive egg, people expect me to—on top of that—see the moral behind my disaster? The regret that invades my mental space is a dragon I am expected to slain, but where is my sword? Frankly, I don’t know where to begin. I love the award, but the risks make me shudder. Is that it? It is important, I believe, to apologize after a mistake, but I also notice that situations change too fast for me, and I end up apologizing for a million things at the same time, even for crimes not even committed.

Mother Mutability’s main job is to make us aware of the impermanence of things. To struggle against her is a losing proposition (or so some would have us believe). Her prime success is those rare times when things literally end before they actually begin. We see ourselves far ahead of danger. Our imaginations take us far from the reach of damnation. And even if we know we cannot keep the pace ahead of change, we relish in our moment, the brief speck of time when everything seems perfect. The crux is always the same: those of us with enough imagination to keep the faith going also accosted by those who believe us to be “immature.” And when the proverbial rugs is finally pulled from underneath us, the cynics point to us and laugh and claim out loud that we should change, become mature, handle responsibility and join the rest of the program. I am not sure I can do that. Even with all of my failures, I still hope. Perhaps because it is inherent in us to do so; humans really want to feel and have faith and hope. A. Bartlett Giamatti, the former Yale president and Major League baseball commissioner said it best:

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times…. And then there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patters and cycles. I need to think that something lasts forever.

The reality that surrounds us, however, is much different. There is so much to battle against nowadays. Even when real love seems around the corner, the actual corner itself gets blurry and dark with the over-cloud of expectations. What we fail to realize is that even those expectations change, whether they become more or less demanding is up to Mother Mutability. She decides, and we are just playing in her backyard.

This may sound pessimistic, but who amongst us hasn’t at one time or another fell victim to incomprehensible changes; changes that occur so fast, we fail to recognize them even after they sit in our laps for years. The logic would be that if we do not notice it, then it is not really change, that change is only that which is recognizable as different from the earlier status. The problem, again, is the change that occurs before there is an opportunity to correct it or direct it to have the outcome be different.

Laying eggs should be celebrated. After all, in the rites of spring, aren’t eggs a sign of fertility, of rebirth and life? But the eggs that Mother Mutability hatches, even the golden ones, are deadly tricks, booby-traps set by a larger force unknown to us, a faceless high command with the power to do and undo. Good-bye before we even say hello… perhaps that is the only way to explain it. Even with all the illusion and hope in the world, we have to accept that which does not come true for us. It’s a sad rule of life, but it’s worst even when beyond our control.

8/6/2005