Good to see you again...

I've had an interesting experience today that to which maybe you can relate.  One of my favorite sayings is I'm so far out of my comfort zone that I can no longer see it in the distance...

I am reminded of the wise words of an unknown sage in the book of Ecclesiastes:

For everything there is a season, and a time for very purpose under heaven: 
a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; 
a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; 
a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; 
a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.

The past few months have been some of the hardest of my life.  Dealing with the declining health of my parents - and being required to sacrifice time and expend energy that I neither had nor wanted to give - was utterly exhausting.

It required me to question why I should do for them what they did not do for me - be there when I needed them the most.  As my love, Lisa, reminded me - we do it because of who we are, not because of who they are...

And still, for those of us with Irish souls, melancholy is always close at hand - and exhaustion only hastens its arrival.

But yesterday was such a lovely day of lightness and fun with the love of my life, it encouraged and strengthened me to start that long journey home to the solace of my own soul.

Pity parties are often enjoyable in the beginning, but soon become bitter and of little use.
So, by the grace of god or karma or tequila, today I found myself reading my blog and trying to regain the heart that once inspired me to write in it regularly.  

Have you ever met someone you once knew- maybe an old classmate or colleague who you've not seen in years?  And, if so, have you experienced the joy of finding that a person you once knew only as an acquaintance - has been since transformed by the vagaries of life into an unexpectedly delightful and compelling person?

It is a joyful experience. A serendipity to be often desired, but always unexpected.  For me, it restores my faith in humanity and the universe that such alchemy exists.  That a person you once merely tolerated or possibly even disliked can transform into such loveliness is magical and uplifting.

Even more unexpected, is when that person with which you become reacquainted is your own, tender self.  That soft and scarred soul which we all possess, but often hide and protect from the external world.

So today, as I reread old blog posts and considered the musings of my own past self, I was reminded of the Faulkner quote:  The past isn't dead.  It isn't even past.

As I read the words that I had once written, I realized that the person who composed those words was someone I admired and wanted to spend some time with.  I realized that person had endured, overcome and even many times triumphed.  I saw that this person was rarely mentored or even coached, and yet either by hook or crook had continued when others did not.

I was reminded that life was - or is now - rarely "fair".  I often told my children that life is rarely fair in the short-run, but only approaches fairness over the very long term.

I was, then, recommitted to my vocation, my calling, my passion.  Writing is that thing that both soothes and transforms those wounded parts of me I sometimes loathe.


But, our path is our path.  Mine has made me, just as yours has made you.  Who you are.  Who you will become.  That person, if you allow it, with whom you've made your peace and learned again to love.


I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things.  William Faulkner



dg

2/25/18

Sent from my iPad

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