"So it's fare thee well my own true love,
We'll meet another day, another time.
It ain't the leavin'
That's a-grievin' me
But my true love who's bound to stay behind"
-Bob Dylan
As I embarked on this composing crusade, I told myself things like "you can go for it, but you'll never finish it....Attempt it, just know that thirty-one days of published content is about as likely as..."
And here I am. Day thirty-one and I'm just as shocked that I made it here as you are. I took this seriously: purchased a new laptop and built a blog two days before, seriously. And yet, contributing to a purpose, a discipline such as this, was more a gift to me. It lead me on a roadway back to myself, it pushed me to compose words again, and it motivated and inspired me on most days. Other days, I felt stuck, tired, unwilling... resisting the acceleration of the vehicle I was propelling towards my intention.
Conquering this fear and doubt has only made me challenge my thought process with other varying elements that have restrained me from striving for more.
It's farewell for now.
But only for now.
I recall the earsplitting ring of the phone that night, followed by the gut-wrenching sound of my mother's shriek.
He was gone.
There had been an accident. He was the only involved and as I imagined the metal of the Tacoma scraping against the stone wall before it plunged into the water beneath him, I had to squeeze, wrinkle my eyes shut, sealing them tighter and tighter in a failed attempt to expunge the gruesome visions. My cognizance juxtaposed; I longed to know the details and also prayed the images would vacate my agitated mind. In this era of time, the imagination labored, sweating on and endless wheel; a treadmill of speculation. The anxiety, palpable.
My thoughts shift from gruesome to pure pain and I relive the moment I disclosed my love for him, for the first and only time in our relationship, a mere nine hours earlier. It was a foreboding of sorts as we never really talked like that, and I recall a dizziness; as if I hovered over my body, spectating as I embraced his frail frame for what would be the last time. And somehow, I knew it would be. He was exposed, his dignity deflated. He'd always swelled with pride, never desiring to present any weakness, and as a result, he was unbreakable, immortal in our eyes. Except for that summer daybreak when we faced the harsh reality that the ticks on the clock with him in our lives were always scarce. We'd fallen into his facade of perpetual existence, and were proven wrong.
The days that followed were hazy and despairing. Hoards of people made appearances. I grew ill, my state of mind gnawing at my well-being, coughing until the muscles in my side shred: torn up the way our family would be, at the loss of this man we so loved. I spent the next few days hunched over in both my mental and physical state of being: my thoughts sickening me and my heart splitting, aching...the pain unfathomable.
The wild, spirited nature of someone larger than life had vacated this world, and we all knew our own lives would cease to be the same.
My face compulsorily spreads into a smile when I think about those carefree summer days when he would pick us up in his truck, ask us to hold the wheel while he lazily spit sunflower seeds out the driver's window, whistling to every tune on the radio and making us pee our pants with laughter. There were also moments of seriousness; I have a clear-as-day memory of him telling us not to cry when he dies, and that everyone dies, but to laugh when his time came, and to remember the good times. It's hard to fathom that this conversation is so seared into my mind as it occurred when I was likely six or seven years old, and yet I guess it was one of those moments frozen in time, never to be forgotten. I'm sure I didn't even understand it at the time, and if I am truthful with myself, I still can't understand or accept his passing. It is a major area within me that I have yet to find peace. A decade elapsed and I'm left feeling continuously robbed at every moment he isn't here. His existence was stripped from us, and so often I beg the skies for omens.
Every now and then, a hawk appears, soaring a little too low to the soil, and I wonder if it's him, nearby.
I wonder if he's there to remind me about all those times he took us fishing, always giving us the big catch, or the times he'd jump out and scare us so badly we were mute for what felt like hours...and yet once recovered, we'd gleefully run back for more. His back massages, arm-tickles, his little giggle laugh, his extraordinary fervor for life, and his love for children.
We didn't say "I love you," because it never needed to be said. It was always inherently felt.
What I'd give for just one more laugh with him, one more conversation, one more scare.
And I realize;
I don't require a bird sighting to awaken in me, the truth. That I'll never forget my uncle.
Peace within, unwavering
inherent faith in oneself, that is my denomination.
Church is a hushed Sunday
morning, burrowed in pajamas, leisurely savoring coffee, a sanctuary built
together.
Our vows a ritual of
authentic conversation.
Might not appear quite like yours, and yet it bears truth and love above all,
with a solid intent on kindness.
My belief in divinity is simplistic. Sacred. It is a keen
connection to self and an awareness of the repercussions of all actions.
It is clean, uncomplicated, guiltless.
It is the only way I know how.
I am a person with over 13,000 photos on my phone's camera roll. I am a person who cannot resist a supple suede boot, a heap of soft yarns, a trending accessory that strikes me. I am someone who grows obsessed instantaneously. Formerly, I saw it as a pitfall.. I am drawn to so many "things," which can be regarded as materialistic. Working in an industry that is heavily focused on outside appearances can make you feel that way. Unless, of course you reshape your outlook and seek the positive connections between yourself and the allure of all in which you are drawn to. I've come to understand and respect that it is a wonderful thing to appreciate beauty in all forms. How we dress is an outward reflection of our emotional state. Taking moments to appreciate the craftsmanship of a hand-knit garment, every stitch carefully curated, infused with the mood of the maker in that moment, wanting to replicate that beauty in your own individual way. I aspire to embolden that quality in others, (and it often results in excessive shopping; for that I apologize in advance).
On the contrary, what I've also grasped is how it has promoted a state of inner tranquility. Appreciating beauty in the external somehow ricochets and introspection subsequently transpires. You begin accept your strife with grace and a second-nature intuitiveness reminds you: only beauty rests on the other side. All those messy mishaps, heartaches and setbacks, requiring immeasurable courage and cleanup, embody beauty, waiting to be unearthed. Peeling back at those moments, we catch sight of our power. Those who SEE beauty, seek it in all things, even hardship.
And you ask yourself, is there anything more beautiful than that?
Why write?, I inquire.
Because it's my bliss.
I'm writing due to a compulsion to complete this commitment I've made to myself. And in blips it feels as if I'm deconstructing that bliss by forcing this publication, tugging words and clicking "Publish," no matter if it is decent scribbles or a leftover morsel...all that I have left to contribute on that given day.
On the contrary, I am inciting this part of me that has been comatose, postponed until further revelation... because I cannot linger. I can't stick around until the next inspiration comes to be. Because, what if it doesn't? Because, life. Nothing waits. There is an aliveness that I cannot suppress. The composer in me has been unearthed, and I don't foresee it being easy to squelch. It is, after all, my passion. My joy. The ultimate pleasure.
I’m not exactly the
praying type... which is not to say that I wasn’t raised that way. My
father brought us to church every Sunday, and my mother taught a set of
prayers, both Catholic mixed with her own words, and sat with my brother and
then me, night after night, as we recited them in unison. I’m grateful for this
and I can say with sincerity that I would not be who I am today without these
instilled values. The power of song resounds on a soul level because of
those Sunday mornings knelt in the wooden pews. My connection to a higher
being is a direct result of my mom's dedication to getting to know her children
as humans, with a gentle stroke of our hair, respecting us and letting our
little voices always be heard.
I was married in a
Catholic church and yet I'm finding myself to be far more spiritual as of
late. Kindness, intentional living, meditative creating, and the law of
karma all encompass my religion now. My prayer consists of the thoughts I
interlace and publish, in the hopes of moving others to build their own
purposed creative life.
It might not look exactly the way my parents envisioned; it might not be in
accordance with their exact dream for me. It's not every Sunday at
church, or a dedication that's identical to what I was taught. However, I
can guarantee that the power of prayer that they have generously bestowed
and sacrificed to develop in their children, is profoundly ingrained in
me...spiritually, and evermore.
There is nothing more malevolent than stripping a virtuous soul of their innocence.
