The tendril forces itself out from the stem. Its unyielding fisted coil will conquer this wall. It will push against anything that comes between itself and the next moment. I am in awe of  its unbending vigour. This is certainty of being. Some people seem to have it too.

A trellis has been sunk into the soil to guide it. Thin bamboo sticks held together with bits of wire. But the plant, done with guidance and the polite shootings of its youth, grows prolifically. Nothing will stop it. If this plant has consciousnessness, I wish I could hear its thoughts and learn from it. How does something proceed with such certainty from itself? Is there a voice in nature I have not yet heard? Am I not a part of nature. I am a being in nature? Is this nature, this suburban garden. I wish my nature were more certain of itself, like this sap gorged tendril rigidly, gently finding the crevices it will fill and claim. What precedes being?

If you repeat the word “certainty” over and over again, holding it in your mind with the hope that the repetition locks onto a deeper sense of its meaning, the word begins to feel and sound strange on the tongue. It then sounds more like a self contained sneeze than a sign pointing to self-assurance. It is like this with most words, these utterances we load with meaning and where variously positioned and stressed, mean different things.

We are flesh that has found words. Like the plant creeping across the trellis, we wind our thoughts around moments and push on. We are not certain of where we’re going , only that we go.