the nature of if

I have a very clear memory of walking home one afternoon from elementary school. It was a solo walk. This was normal in the early 70's. And safe. In a contemplative mood, I was repeating the word "if" in my head.
if
if
if
if
if
if
if
if
The sound of it suddenly transformed. "If" became something else. It became a word whose meaning I could not quite remember. A spelling that was shifting in my conscience. ef? af? iv?

It was a disconcerting moment. What was wrong? I knew what I was repeating was a simple word. I knew it had only two letters. It was my first memorable surreal moment. It only lasted about 1/2 a block. (I could drive you to that spot today.) Yet here it still is, fresh, 30-some odd years later.

I think back on that experience from time to time. Not a lot; it wasn't a life altering moment. But it pops into my head every year or five. If . . .

It seems appropriate at this particular word shifted. I accept that "if" can change. Because "if" by its very nature is changing.

While I was traveling earlier this week, there was lots of time for thought, smashed uncomfortably between a fat dude and a rumpled guy who hadn't had an opportunity to shower since he left Israel how many ever hours before. So it was good to drift off to the Ipod, into thought. Reality was less pleasant.

"If," grammatically, is usually followed in a sentence with "then". If. Then. One leading to the other. Cause and effect. But more than that. It is also conveying an unknown. It is what might be. It is a maybe. Sometimes a question; sometimes a statement. "If" is an amorphous, changing thing.

If I were more understanding, then she would hurt less.
If he were less selfish, then he might not have destroyed his life.
If I worked less, then would I find more happiness?
If she weren't born into a family with such neediness, then she could be less guarded.
If I weeded my garden, then it might actually be pretty.
If this hurt doesn't go away, then will she do something really bad?
If I didn't love chocolate so much, then my waistline wouldn't be such a struggle.
If he had just been more open-minded, then could that lovely situation have gone on forever?
If I had been less reckless, then there wouldn't be a hole.
If she were less judgmental, then I wouldn't be so scared about becoming her.
If I hadn't been so naive, then I wouldn't carry these hidden scars.
If she hadn't been wearing those cool jean with the rainbow on her tush, then would I have avoided becoming a social outcast?
If I could make it all better, then maybe your world might be less painful.
If success hadn't evaded me early, then would I have ultimately achieved it?
If they lived, then what would they be?
If I had said no out loud, then it might have made a difference.

If. Then.

The nature of "if" is pretty powerful stuff.