Wednesday, July 16, 2014
I wisely decided to retire early this evening. A dry and soothing breeze is coming in my window. There is still a bit of light in the western sky. It's high summer now. And yet today the word 'November' was uttered whilst I was at work..and I could feel a bit of trepidation course through me. I don't want to think about November. I don't want to ponder the coming of autumn...for then the trees will start to go into hibernation...and winter will be coming once more.
As for now it's July. And I keep thinking of that summer thirty-two years ago when I was eight years old. I do not recall pleasure during those summer days of 1982. I just remember the vague and queasy feeling of fear. Too many of the days of my childhood were filled with fear and chaos. And too much of that fear got inside me. I coped as best as I could. I forgot some of the pain. I harbored resentment. I felt a lot of anger. Later I thought I had rid myself of it. But I hadn't done that fully. Now I am working to do that...all this time later.
Not until earlier this year did I think of myself as a writer. I still do not imagine making a living on my writing alone...but I do now imagine using my communication skills in some greater way in the future. Becoming a 'real' writer is something that still surprises me. It can be such a solitary pursuit...this realm of words. And in that sense I sometimes feel taking up writing isn't the best choice considering one of my lifelong issues was being isolated too much of the time. But it appears this undertaking is part of a larger journey...so I must stay faithful to it.
Trauma can inspire us to do things we might not ordinarily do...like become writers.
How exactly does one transcend the experience of soul loss as an infant? This question is in my mind on many days.
Night grows outside my window. Another day is ending. Where is my future? Is it to be assembled in the pieces of a confused and chaotic past? Yes and no. What can I take with me on the journey? Another good question. I'd like to believe my ancestors are looking after me. What does my future hold?
Some days I just want to sleep.
Tomorrow can be a better day. The night wind whispers to me. Tomorrow my eyes will again see the world. My eyes are such a gift. Perhaps I shall discover a key in some out of the way place tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow lovely surprises will come to my life.
Life. A gift. Darkness. The wind.
I wisely decided to retire early this evening. A dry and soothing breeze is coming in my window. There is still a bit of light in the western sky. It's high summer now. And yet today the word 'November' was uttered whilst I was at work..and I could feel a bit of trepidation course through me. I don't want to think about November. I don't want to ponder the coming of autumn...for then the trees will start to go into hibernation...and winter will be coming once more.
As for now it's July. And I keep thinking of that summer thirty-two years ago when I was eight years old. I do not recall pleasure during those summer days of 1982. I just remember the vague and queasy feeling of fear. Too many of the days of my childhood were filled with fear and chaos. And too much of that fear got inside me. I coped as best as I could. I forgot some of the pain. I harbored resentment. I felt a lot of anger. Later I thought I had rid myself of it. But I hadn't done that fully. Now I am working to do that...all this time later.
Not until earlier this year did I think of myself as a writer. I still do not imagine making a living on my writing alone...but I do now imagine using my communication skills in some greater way in the future. Becoming a 'real' writer is something that still surprises me. It can be such a solitary pursuit...this realm of words. And in that sense I sometimes feel taking up writing isn't the best choice considering one of my lifelong issues was being isolated too much of the time. But it appears this undertaking is part of a larger journey...so I must stay faithful to it.
Trauma can inspire us to do things we might not ordinarily do...like become writers.
How exactly does one transcend the experience of soul loss as an infant? This question is in my mind on many days.
Night grows outside my window. Another day is ending. Where is my future? Is it to be assembled in the pieces of a confused and chaotic past? Yes and no. What can I take with me on the journey? Another good question. I'd like to believe my ancestors are looking after me. What does my future hold?
Some days I just want to sleep.
Tomorrow can be a better day. The night wind whispers to me. Tomorrow my eyes will again see the world. My eyes are such a gift. Perhaps I shall discover a key in some out of the way place tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow lovely surprises will come to my life.
Life. A gift. Darkness. The wind.
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