Shakespeare and Kipling, and Poets too many.

Freud and Jung and Frankl searched plenty.

Budha, Muhammed, and Jesus for any.

So many modes to meaning.

Some defined themselves by what they endured, some by what they achieved,

some both and more.

Some defined themselves by their work, some by their love,

some by standards found in their heaven above.

Some by what they sought and permitted, some by what they avoided and resisted.

Some by where they started and where they ended on the playing fields both visible and invisible, some by the fights they fought and for whom or what or whence they would yield.

Some only by their fruits, some by what they brought out in others.  Some by their own dreams, some by measures of others.  Some by the beatings they took and gave, from birth to grave, the beatings torn apart and the beatings of their heart.

In the end there is a meaning as it was in the beginning, and if the prize is worth the winning, it can justify each inning:  This is an ode to the modes of meaning.

A sense of integrity, of self, of other, of the dreams of one and other, of the love of it all, the rise and the fall, the blinking of the eye and the beat of the heart, all a part of makers art.

Sing your song, dance your dance, play your music or follow along, imagine how free you would be if you realized that so long as you keep your eye to the sky and your heart in love, you can’t get it wrong.

Imagine and perform, or just rest and be warm, let the river take care of it’s flowing.  Trust it will go on, and if not then fawn, stretch back and sing odes to the meaning.

You are loved and belong.