The Number Plane

I’ve found myself trying to control the constant, visualising the variables and estimating the outcomes. It’s been this correlation between control and being cool; a relationship between sharing and being selfish. It’s this perpetual watch on how the graph is mapping itself out on my paper, and if the coloured lines are corresponding to my key.

In watching the graph being formed I see this regular resisting and desisting, this push and pull of which gravity holds a reckoning force. As hard as I may work to monitor the axis, I can never map out exactly how it will fall into line. After all my calculus, my algebra and my equations, I may never realise that the gradient, as it stands will never lie upon that y-axis where my eyes are fixed.

But maybe the points of intersection are not creating a single line, with a rise over run heading upwards smoothly. Maybe these points in my life are creating points on that number plane that will one day meet like I dot-to-dot the stars. Maybe it is not as simple as a steady gradient, but instead it is as beautiful as the points that we mapped out together when we were young. When we formed shapes from the chicken pox that covered our bodies.

And how we needed to learn to draw those patterns, because we never knew the marks that would form themselves on our bodies, the scars that would be engraved in our skin. And you taught me how to draw just as you taught me how to see. You taught me that some lines may never cross on to your path, but some others may never receive that same mark. You saw the marks as blessings, as moments of change and points no return. As I look, I see not a straight line forming, but a collection of spots and scars that happened in the midst of the billion other things. And it’s not a correlation of a lovely straight line number like number 1; but my correlation is way back at 0.05 where the numbers are round, at the dots are spread out so the plane is well covered like a blanket of stars.

And what I realise now is that there is still a number plane, that cross is marked indelibly over my life. But I will not pass over it in one fowl swoop. I will open my arms, I will stretch them in a giant breath and they will span slowly from the y to x axis like a birds wings. I didn’t want to live my life with a clenched fist, but arms wide and hands open to catch what heaven poured out for me. My body will straighten from a foetal position to one that stretches out to the sky, to the stars where I will open my eyes to see over the horizon and the hills in the west.

And I will breath, knowing that I do not have as much control as I wish I could. But I have a number plane, and you give me the co-ordinates; and together we join the spots- the stars that form my life, that form that I’ve been wanting to show you since I was a little girl.

The greatness of a man’s power is in the measure of his surrender. – William Booth

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