Infinite in Possibility (and the Divine)

Image credit: Quinn Dombrowski

by Bryn Watkins

I feel privileged, as a young’un, to continue to enjoy nights of unencumbered romping around with friends and independent capering about on my own into the wee hours of the morning even as I make the ungainly transition to real-life adulthood.  I encounter moments of too-cramped, sweaty back seats with friends and I encounter moments of loud music–the good-loud and the annoying-loud, both.  I encounter moments of crippling laughter and spectacular quietude, moments of cheap frivolity and moments of startling depth.  I find my experiences dumbly heightened by a limited history and my perspective taxed by the size of my future.  My insecurities tear at my fabric even as my daydreams stitch it back up.  Everything in those nights, as in my life, is simultaneously little as it is big.

I love those moments.  I love the hush when a theater goes dark, and I love melting salty, dark chocolate between my gums.  I love slapping the final cover of a book closed, I love grabbing a friend’s elbow to emphasize my point.  (Yeah, I’m an elbow-grabber.)  I love feeling small beneath a big beautiful sky, and I love feeling large while stuffing my face with good bread and warm honey.  I feel blessed with those rare moments of clarity when I can find love in odd places and light in the funny corners of my planet.

And excuse me for romanticizing those snapshots, but I’ve found in those moments a consistent sense of infinity–a concept I acknowledge is so incomprehensible that it doesn’t quite make sense to use it for articulation.  But it’s the best word I’ve got.

See, lately I’ve been musing–repeatedly–about what it means to feel infinite. It pops up in literature and poetry and, quite noticeably, in the scriptures.  And while I’ve been finding it on occasion in my personal life, overwhelmingly in the scriptures it serves as a descriptor for God.

Obvious, right?  While there’s no clear correlation between my plainness and my intermittent sense of personal infinity, its relevance to God’s character couldn’t be clearer.  He doesn’t feel infinity as I might; He is infinity.

So I’ve realized what a blessing those moments are–the loud music on late nights and the ice cream on my tongue and the beautiful places and all the seconds of sudden consciousness paired with each–they’re all like shout-outs from God, reminding me that–miraculously and inexplicably–I am like Him.  Particularly as my remaining adolescence amplifies both my peaks and my valleys, I find that each time I hit those peaks–just like the mountain-top-temples back in the day–I truly am closer to God.  My infinity is found in the subtle happinesses He grants me as I romp and as I caper, tasting cheese and smelling rain.

Otherwise I find it too easy to forget my own divine nature.  It’s a theory we learn in church, an idea as considerably distant from us as infinity is from our comprehension of numbers.  But in God’s hands, we are eternal and unbounded.  On God’s court, the super juice intended to rehydrate and re-motivate us is built of small perfections in this consistently grayer world.  I’ve found that for me at least, I must cling to them in the moments they come and keep my eyes open for each next time they do.

I am as filled with light as my moments are, so I have to choose to be tuned to the right wavelength to get God’s tokens as they appear, as He sends quiet nudges to remind me who I am and who I can be, who I will be.  In fact, I find that an awareness of my own infinity, tailored to my happinesses and hidden even in moments of juvenile pleasure, is as important as any other religious ritual we may be taught to keep.  Just as I must remember to get on my knees each night, I must also remember to feel His love as I giggle with friends or wake in the morning to a beautiful sunrise.  I must remember to find God in all of my infinite moments, and know that when I do it’s only because He found me there first.

I know my days of untethered prancing around life will someday end but I also know that the infinities I’ve found in my moments these past few years will continue well into old age as long as I remain willing to meet God wherever I go, and meet my own divine nature there as well.

What a gift that is, to see in the simple beauties flooding our senses that we must have a godly heritage!

In the colors.

In the sounds.

In the chocolate.

Especially in the chocolate . . . melting like it’s summer on my tongue.

2 Comments on “Infinite in Possibility (and the Divine)

  1. Pure poetry. I finish reading this blog with joy and determination to enjoy each moment that God grants me breath. I love you, Bryn!!! Thank you for sharing your talents!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  2. As I contemplate the truths in such a beautifully written essay by Bryn, my darling granddaughter, I am overwhelmed at the majesty of such expressions and am brought to tears as I finished reading this magnificent piece. Thank you for opening my mind and heart wider to feeling the gratitude to a Father who is always there in every corner of my life.

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