The Whirling

There are cycles and songs, unheard and unseen; hidden. All around us surges the throbbing rhythms of life, of existence, of the secret whirling.
The wheel of a car only knows the circle and lives a life of revolving. It doesn't understand distance, the linear; it only knows asphalt and air.
A nest of carpenter ants appeared in the building where I live. They can be very destructive and have to be destroyed, by insecticide. I was getting around to doing the killing, thinking on where I put the ant poison. Every day, I thought about it, for a couple of weeks. Then I noticed they had left. Perhaps, in this way, the ants preserved themselves.
I won't ask how. And if they knew. Or if it is just co-incidence. I am no longer a sceptic, nor a believer. I now know that there is much unknown.
Trust is a song we sing, quietly hummed by every cell in our bodies. It is the same song sung by budding leaves and buzzing bees. It is an old song, deeply etched into a granite; each singing a drop of eroding water; a stronger memory. It is repeated a hundred million times a day. For over millions of years.
There is a story, I don't know if it is true:
Nor does it matter:
Of a whirling dervish, who in a state of ecstasy, forgot himself and forgot to keep his feet on the floor. Forgot to keep the contract with gravity and he rose--spinning into the air.
Sometimes, knowledge can only be won by forgetting.what we know to be trueandobvious. Of all the skills we might acquire, forgetting may be the most important.
We wake into sleep. At night we live a different life. It is the life of dreams and in that life, we witness the fantastic (the could-be!). We become as whirling dervishes and forget.
In forgetting, we lose to gain.