Sunday, November 4, 2012
Sidewalk Solace
I kneel down on the hard, cold, grey concrete.
I cannot speak.
My chest feels tight. Feelings parallel to mine shine openly in the eyes of my classmates, whose names I do not know.
Salty tears, shed so freely. Familiar faces; unknown names.
The concrete we kneel on is just to the left of the front glass doors of our high school. A small, clear plastic bucket of colored chalk waits nearby, for any who wish to pay their respects in the same manner as my classmates, whose names I do not know. Red, yellow, green, orange, blue.
I watch them.
“How fast was he going when they hit?”
“I don’t know.”
I do not know his name. I do not know his story. I only know what I gather from words murmured around me.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Graduation’s only in a few weeks.”
“How could it have happened?”
“Was he just being careless?”
“No!”
“He was a responsible kid, he was never careless.”
“And he knew how to ride- he’s been on a motorbike since he was just a kid.”
I cannot feel them, or their words. They draw sad farewells on the concrete with the chalk in their hands.
I watch them.
I struggle within myself.
It has been a difficult year. Emotional and mental imbalance, stemming from the recurrence of a brain tumor, necessitated my extended absence from school mere weeks ago. Returning is an experiment, to learn if I can handle the stresses of public education. A desire to be free from the troubles of life has required a closer watch by responsible eyes. A hard working father, five hundred miles away, has had to leave that duty in the capable, caring hands of an overworked mother. She takes me to school and will pick me up at its end. The trip this morning is already gone from memory. I live each moment focused silently inward; time is slow poison.
And now this.
A moment before, I saw them mourning. The pressure in my head, my heart began to multiply. I deeply wanted to help them heal, to be a friend. Tears, honest and real as theirs, are locked up inside the tightness in my chest.
I feverishly open my yellow backpack. I gather out my binder of tattered loose leaf paper, then lower it to the concrete and open.
Taking a red piece of chalk from the bucket, I draw a quick line around the binder’s edge. I rise from my knees and turn away. I feel my classmates’ stares. I muster all the self-mastery I have left to not turn back to see whose eyes those looks belong to. Instead, I direct my feet toward the crosswalk. I do not know if I will return when lunch is done.
It is excruciating, sitting immobile with my noon meal before me, bound by the necessity to adhere to the unwritten laws of propriety, whilst the most precious item in my possession, my binder of words, lies open on the concrete mere yards away for any to glance therein- or steal, or deface, or destroy. I had no choice but to give it. I had to give something. It was the only thing that I could honorably have given. Something as emotionally powerful to me as their grief was to them, these classmates who I do not know the names of. Anything less would have made a mockery of their feelings. That was something I simply could not do.
My binder of poetry, with the most private, personal, precious words ever written by this hand, belongs to them now. It will be theirs for as long a time as I can endure. If I return to find its heart gone, so be it.
Lunchtime is done. My quaking body, beckoned by an aching, torn-up spirit, moves quickly back across the muted street. I stop. A painful walk forgotten.
What are they doing to my heart?
I look to the spot where I left it. Too slowly to quiet the dread building inside, I walk only as fast as my body allows me. Students still sit and kneel on the concrete. One of them lies on her side, cheek in hand. My binder, my poetry lies open in front of her.
How many have seen into my heart? What have they learned? What will they do?
She glances up at me as my steps come closer. I see her rise quickly and move away. I am disappointed, that her thoughts will never be voiced. I am relieved, that my heart has not been stolen, or defaced, or destroyed. I shakily gather the binder up and quickly place it back inside the yellow pack.
I have to endure my final two classes. They pass without any response. My mind holds only faces. In shock, it takes in physical details as sweet relief; my fellow children are suddenly so beautiful.
School is done. The front doors are before me, my arms pushing through. My chest becomes tighter. Another girl walks toward me, not faltering, on the very left edge of my peripheral vision. She is radiant, filled with some inner light. I know she has seen deep into me.
I am given no warning.
She reaches her fair, slender arms round me. I am bound.
I cannot breathe.
She whispers three words.
“I never knew…”
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Park Bench Friend
Here I sit on this park bench, so lost in my thought that it takes a moment to recognize that the words so abruptly spoken in the peaceful silence are directed at me.
“What happened to the back of your head?”
Ah yes, THOSE words. Who else would they be directed toward?
I swivel around and see her standing there- long, wavy, dark, dark hair, oval-shaped, sapphire blue eyes, the most angelic of faces-
“Care to hear an engaging tale?” I query.
“I don’t have much time, actually,” is her response.
“What happened to the back of my head nearly cost me my life,” I tell her calmly. “I would be tearing myself down if I spent only five seconds on it. If you’d like to take a rain check, though, I come here five, six days a week.”
She looks at me in silence. Seeing nothing on her face to lend belief to the idea of her staying to talk, I turn back to the front and, taking a deep breath, begin the process of losing myself in my thoughts again. It is so much more comforting in here than out there. Lately- and by lately I mean my latest convalescence, and the prior medical fiasco that necessitated it- I am finding it my only place of psychological resort and retreat. Seeing that I don’t care to spend much of my precious time in “reality” because of its relative lack of appeal, I have lost myself in my thoughts, unaided, for hours at a time. Aided, I have spent months. My goal, such as it is, is to lose myself in them forever. Those who do not like this or do not agree with it will have a problem- it’s their problem. Thank goodness I only answer to God. He knows the reasons for everything I do. I think he is kinder than I know or even can understand.
My thoughts are again interrupted. Vibrations spread from the seat of my pants to the rest of my body. I glance to my right to see her sitting there with an expectant look on her beautiful face.
“I’ll listen,” she says.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“So you’re a walking miracle,” she concludes.
“You could say so,” I nod, “If you believe in miracles.”
“I don’t,” she tells me. “But I believe you.”
“I appreciate it. Not everyone does.”
“How many have you told?”
“Thousands have heard my story. That doesn’t mean I was the one to tell them all.”
“Thousands? How is that even possible?” she asks incredulously.
“It becomes easier when you tell a bunch of them all at once. Quantity, then quality, though there are times when I think I might have wanted things to turn out differently.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You don’t like how things have turned out?”
“I don’t dislike it,” I explain. “That doesn’t mean that things might not have been better otherwise.”
“How so?” she asks, calmly this time.
“It has made me susceptible to bouts of empty, meaningless pride. That, in turn, has made it nearly impossible for me to put my mind to the task I was meant to accomplish.”
“What task is that?”
“I was born to write,” I say, smiling at her. “My task is to write something to change the world- the entire world- for the better.”
She smiles back at me. “What sorts of things do you write, when your pride doesn’t stop you?”
Ah, she is listening still. “I write poetry, short stories, and when I can keep that pride of mine in check, I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s your novel about?”
I tell her in brief.
“That sounds interesting. It’s definitely a wide open field.”
“I enjoy having room to work with, although, I have run into a snag or two. Even with the unique topic I have found, the ways of getting to the story’s ending have been blocked, because the ideas have already been used. I want my book to be original as much as possible. I have learned that originality is not something easily come by.”
“Could you write something right now, if someone asked you?”
“I could,” I say to her. “What would I write about?”
“You are really passionate about helping other people through your writing. How about you write about something you have done in your writing that has helped someone?”
I mull it over for a second. “How about something that is helping or will help? Does that work?”
“Sure,” she laughs easily. It was a very happy sound.
“Here we go, then.
Sitting so quietly upon a log deep in a forest glade, an angel tiptoes up to me as my memories all fade. Placing a hand upon my brow, she says, you’re feeling low. I will help you, I will heal you, I will make your being glow. As soon as her heavenly skin rests upon my own, I am borne on wings of mercy to a place I might call home. Angels of light and darkness I see as my vision is unfurled; I realize as I view these souls, this is my own real world. Each of these souls, so bright and so dark, I have touched and have touched me. And every one has played a part in the effort to make me free. Look, she says, and I will show you, the lives that have touched yours, And the lives that have felt your touch upon most distant shores. One by one I view them all, counting not the passing hours. My body feels not the burning sun not the cloudbursts’ falling showers. I am lost in memory, the happy and the glad; but of all that has changed me, I know not whether has been to the good or bad. Would you like to see what happened to the angel who saved your life? Would you like to know what has become of her through all these years of strife? Yes, I answer shakily, though I am frightened to the core, please tell me what became of my angel, she whose spirit I adore…”
“Wow,” she says quietly. “You came up with that right now? That isn’t something you’ve memorized?”
“Nope. Purely improvisation.”
She laughs again. I am beginning to like the sound. “Do you have any of your poetry memorized?
“I do.”
“Well I like your impromptu poetry; maybe I will like your memorized poetry too. What do you have for me?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye.
It is my turn to laugh. “Here we go again. This is called Dark Angel.
Black and white, bitter and sweet, emperors and kings, yet so obsolete. Oxymoron all over the earth confuses the difference of anger and mirth. Outside does not matter, but what is inside counts, we cannot judge a soul by external amounts. And so others see a child of hell; she is definitely not, simply a darker angel. Diseases and sickness can fly through the air, but rumors go faster, and without a care. They see a bright devil who hides the heart well, but I? I see a beautiful dark angel…”
She was quiet for a moment. “You wrote that about someone you knew, didn’t you?”
It takes me a moment to respond. When I do, my voice is strained.
“Yes."
“What happened to the back of your head?”
Ah yes, THOSE words. Who else would they be directed toward?
I swivel around and see her standing there- long, wavy, dark, dark hair, oval-shaped, sapphire blue eyes, the most angelic of faces-
“Care to hear an engaging tale?” I query.
“I don’t have much time, actually,” is her response.
“What happened to the back of my head nearly cost me my life,” I tell her calmly. “I would be tearing myself down if I spent only five seconds on it. If you’d like to take a rain check, though, I come here five, six days a week.”
She looks at me in silence. Seeing nothing on her face to lend belief to the idea of her staying to talk, I turn back to the front and, taking a deep breath, begin the process of losing myself in my thoughts again. It is so much more comforting in here than out there. Lately- and by lately I mean my latest convalescence, and the prior medical fiasco that necessitated it- I am finding it my only place of psychological resort and retreat. Seeing that I don’t care to spend much of my precious time in “reality” because of its relative lack of appeal, I have lost myself in my thoughts, unaided, for hours at a time. Aided, I have spent months. My goal, such as it is, is to lose myself in them forever. Those who do not like this or do not agree with it will have a problem- it’s their problem. Thank goodness I only answer to God. He knows the reasons for everything I do. I think he is kinder than I know or even can understand.
My thoughts are again interrupted. Vibrations spread from the seat of my pants to the rest of my body. I glance to my right to see her sitting there with an expectant look on her beautiful face.
“I’ll listen,” she says.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
“So you’re a walking miracle,” she concludes.
“You could say so,” I nod, “If you believe in miracles.”
“I don’t,” she tells me. “But I believe you.”
“I appreciate it. Not everyone does.”
“How many have you told?”
“Thousands have heard my story. That doesn’t mean I was the one to tell them all.”
“Thousands? How is that even possible?” she asks incredulously.
“It becomes easier when you tell a bunch of them all at once. Quantity, then quality, though there are times when I think I might have wanted things to turn out differently.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You don’t like how things have turned out?”
“I don’t dislike it,” I explain. “That doesn’t mean that things might not have been better otherwise.”
“How so?” she asks, calmly this time.
“It has made me susceptible to bouts of empty, meaningless pride. That, in turn, has made it nearly impossible for me to put my mind to the task I was meant to accomplish.”
“What task is that?”
“I was born to write,” I say, smiling at her. “My task is to write something to change the world- the entire world- for the better.”
She smiles back at me. “What sorts of things do you write, when your pride doesn’t stop you?”
Ah, she is listening still. “I write poetry, short stories, and when I can keep that pride of mine in check, I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s your novel about?”
I tell her in brief.
“That sounds interesting. It’s definitely a wide open field.”
“I enjoy having room to work with, although, I have run into a snag or two. Even with the unique topic I have found, the ways of getting to the story’s ending have been blocked, because the ideas have already been used. I want my book to be original as much as possible. I have learned that originality is not something easily come by.”
“Could you write something right now, if someone asked you?”
“I could,” I say to her. “What would I write about?”
“You are really passionate about helping other people through your writing. How about you write about something you have done in your writing that has helped someone?”
I mull it over for a second. “How about something that is helping or will help? Does that work?”
“Sure,” she laughs easily. It was a very happy sound.
“Here we go, then.
Sitting so quietly upon a log deep in a forest glade, an angel tiptoes up to me as my memories all fade. Placing a hand upon my brow, she says, you’re feeling low. I will help you, I will heal you, I will make your being glow. As soon as her heavenly skin rests upon my own, I am borne on wings of mercy to a place I might call home. Angels of light and darkness I see as my vision is unfurled; I realize as I view these souls, this is my own real world. Each of these souls, so bright and so dark, I have touched and have touched me. And every one has played a part in the effort to make me free. Look, she says, and I will show you, the lives that have touched yours, And the lives that have felt your touch upon most distant shores. One by one I view them all, counting not the passing hours. My body feels not the burning sun not the cloudbursts’ falling showers. I am lost in memory, the happy and the glad; but of all that has changed me, I know not whether has been to the good or bad. Would you like to see what happened to the angel who saved your life? Would you like to know what has become of her through all these years of strife? Yes, I answer shakily, though I am frightened to the core, please tell me what became of my angel, she whose spirit I adore…”
“Wow,” she says quietly. “You came up with that right now? That isn’t something you’ve memorized?”
“Nope. Purely improvisation.”
She laughs again. I am beginning to like the sound. “Do you have any of your poetry memorized?
“I do.”
“Well I like your impromptu poetry; maybe I will like your memorized poetry too. What do you have for me?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye.
It is my turn to laugh. “Here we go again. This is called Dark Angel.
Black and white, bitter and sweet, emperors and kings, yet so obsolete. Oxymoron all over the earth confuses the difference of anger and mirth. Outside does not matter, but what is inside counts, we cannot judge a soul by external amounts. And so others see a child of hell; she is definitely not, simply a darker angel. Diseases and sickness can fly through the air, but rumors go faster, and without a care. They see a bright devil who hides the heart well, but I? I see a beautiful dark angel…”
She was quiet for a moment. “You wrote that about someone you knew, didn’t you?”
It takes me a moment to respond. When I do, my voice is strained.
“Yes."
Flash of inspiration
If wishes were fishes there wouldn't be enough water in the oceans and lakes and rivers and streams to hold them all. Likewise with dreams. Perhaps the answer is not to wish for great things, but plan for great things. Your focus determines your reality. Create the reality you want to experience in your own mind, then behave as though that reality is already beginning to occur. Then enjoy the ride as your actions naturally follow to make that reality your own. LET IT BE!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Green Exit Sign
The green exit sign looms large before my hazel eyes. It has been days since I saw the last, for I have lost my ability to move from one to the next with any kind of efficiency. The images are still fresh in my mind; the faces and smirks and smiles and grimaces and unveiled eyes burned into me forever. I keep moving in an effort to blank them from my thoughts; the miles left behind me by my own two feet have yet to prove any hindrance to my pain. I have taken the labels off and thrown them away; now I throw the bottles as well. My wings are clipped; it will do me no good to keep the feathers.
I will walk until I have no more thoughts to think. I desire numbness. I desire forgetfulness, of everything but the subconscious understanding of how to move one foot in front of the other and the unending compulsion to do so forever. Physical pain is almost soothing now; mental and emotional pain is unbearable.
I have relived it all, over and over again. The shining implements of pain; the methodical, scientific, unfeeling administrators of that pain; the sympathetic, well-intentioned, unhelpful, pointless murmurings of mouths unversed in the art of speaking balm; the soul windows passing heavily biased judgment on one whose sole purpose has been to fall; the dreams risen and crushed, risen and crushed, risen and crushed, so many times! I was given wings, they were so large and beautiful, yet never while they were growing was I allowed to jump off the smallest boulder to see if I could fly! Now these shriveled up nubs at the high reaches of my back are left to me as solemn, mocking reminders of what would never be but what might have been! What was the point, in any of it? I want to understand! If I am doomed to live unfulfilled, I want to know why! I have made grave mistakes, but so has every other person on the face of this wretchedly beautiful world.
I have not wanted to be here for so long! Where is the balm in my life?! Where is the other half of my soul? Where can I go but ever onward, no place of rest where I may lay my weary head? Even now, if I let myself, I can feel the lessening of my strength as it ebbs away from each limb. I know I cannot go on forever. It would doubtless seem pointless to many, this continuation of motion into oblivion. Why should I not simply lay down as countless others before me and die? The answer is that it is not in me to admit defeat, not permanently. I have given up so many times, being determined to stay down till the glorious end. But I knew then as I know now, that it would not be a glorious end. The only end that has ever been glorious is the end in motion. There is no glory in quitting. I know what I am. I know who and what I was. Who I will be is determined by what I do. As of this moment, I am continuing on.
These are the bloodied facts of my life: I am a two- time brain tumor surgery survivor with four surgeries above the neck and one below. I have relearned how to walk five times; I have walked to the precipice on weakest legs and looked over, wanting to take another, final, step. I have had my heart broken many times and have broken other hearts just as many. I have committed heinous crimes, yet somewhere in the back of my fevered mind I hear the voices of angels as they thank me for what I have done for others of God’s children. At times I wish I could remember what I might have done to help them. At other times it seems to me better that I do not remember, for so many wonderful memories would only be so many more excuses to lock myself in the past. I would not go back into my past and change it, not even my crimes. I will not continue to harrow up in my soul, guilt and shame and fear of recrimination.
I am who I am. I have made terrible mistakes. I have been through terrifyingly hot fire. I have experienced death and heartache and despair. I have enjoyed love, and caring, and joy. I have been attacked by the adversary time and time again. And time and time again, I have been saved by my Advocate. I know from personal experience that this life is heart-breakingly difficult at times, and that we sometimes only wish it over. I know how much it hurts to fall, whether by our own choices or not. It can hurt even more to get back up again. I know firsthand the powerful lure of carnal pleasures. It can be so easy to forget who I am, that I am a son of Almighty God, that I bear the Melchizedec Priesthood, that I am capable of saving lives and also capable of destroying them. I know that God lives and that He loves me enough to let me fall, so that I may learn to differentiate between good and evil. I have learned that my life is precious to God. I have learned that the Savior has walked by my side all my life, and that he knows who I am. I suppose that through everything that has happened to me I have become closer to the person God wants me to be, though I have taken many detours on the road to getting there.
God is kind. He has always allowed me another chance, another opportunity to turn back to Him after I have turned away yet again. The darkness attracts me so strongly that all I want at times is to turn and sprint headlong in its direction. The biggest question for me is “What do I really want?” The problem with asking that question and finding the answer is simply that I want opposing things, things that cannot be had at the same time; things that I must make a choice between if I am to make progress in either. It hurts to think about it; finding something, anything, to numb or forget the pain becomes the subsequent, consuming endeavor. There are many times when all I want is to cease feeling anything at all. At times it is as though I am bound, suspended over a bed of smoldering coals, and someone I cannot see tells me that things will get better. At other times it is as though I am being drawn and quartered, but at an excruciatingly slow pace, and someone else I cannot see tells me that I am doing remarkably well.
I am not doing well! I am being torn to shreds inside!
I will walk on. I will fall. I will get back up. I will fall yet again, and I will struggle from my knees. They are bloody; I have fallen upon them too many times for it not to be so. I have discovered what I want more than anything. I have learned that knowing what I really desire only fans the flames, and yet, I still want to know! I am determined to hurt! It would seem that trials, troubles, tribulations, toils, difficulties, impossibilities, pain, hardship, and every other descriptive substitute for opposition here in mortality are but different ways of spelling out “par for the course.” They are nothing but meaningless words until one actually experiences them firsthand. Here it is a given that a soul- any soul- will feel “growing pains,” whether he or she is striving for greatness or not. For those who ARE striving for such, however, it is a given that all possible opposition will be stacked against them. It is said that only with such opposing forces in operation can one expect to be CHANGED from mediocrity to greatness. When one battles with depression in addition to other challenges, things are made so much more difficult. Though such a one may desire to succeed, the desire to give up each time one falls is greater than it would otherwise be, and the attractiveness of such an option monumental. That the pain will stop if one gives up is the most tormenting thought imaginable; yet another reason that one wishes the numbness to set in. When one has made an unbroken habit of getting up, it is impossible to stay down forever! It is impossible to grant oneself leave to rest for any substantial length of time; it is only possible for someone else to grant such a miraculous thing. The only difference between quitting and grace is whose hand it is that falls.
I know not how many miles I have walked, but I know that many, many hours have passed. I know that my limbs ache, though they ache less now than before. I know not if this means I am at last becoming numb. I know that there are many who would take me wherever I wanted to go if I asked them, but they I also wish to forget. All connections to humanity, all feeling, all understanding; I want it gone. I want to forget who I am; I want to forget everything and everyone I’ve known. It hurts to love. I don't want to hurt any more.
No more signs. No more guideposts, whatever their color. No more understanding. Numbness.
I will walk until I have no more thoughts to think. I desire numbness. I desire forgetfulness, of everything but the subconscious understanding of how to move one foot in front of the other and the unending compulsion to do so forever. Physical pain is almost soothing now; mental and emotional pain is unbearable.
I have relived it all, over and over again. The shining implements of pain; the methodical, scientific, unfeeling administrators of that pain; the sympathetic, well-intentioned, unhelpful, pointless murmurings of mouths unversed in the art of speaking balm; the soul windows passing heavily biased judgment on one whose sole purpose has been to fall; the dreams risen and crushed, risen and crushed, risen and crushed, so many times! I was given wings, they were so large and beautiful, yet never while they were growing was I allowed to jump off the smallest boulder to see if I could fly! Now these shriveled up nubs at the high reaches of my back are left to me as solemn, mocking reminders of what would never be but what might have been! What was the point, in any of it? I want to understand! If I am doomed to live unfulfilled, I want to know why! I have made grave mistakes, but so has every other person on the face of this wretchedly beautiful world.
I have not wanted to be here for so long! Where is the balm in my life?! Where is the other half of my soul? Where can I go but ever onward, no place of rest where I may lay my weary head? Even now, if I let myself, I can feel the lessening of my strength as it ebbs away from each limb. I know I cannot go on forever. It would doubtless seem pointless to many, this continuation of motion into oblivion. Why should I not simply lay down as countless others before me and die? The answer is that it is not in me to admit defeat, not permanently. I have given up so many times, being determined to stay down till the glorious end. But I knew then as I know now, that it would not be a glorious end. The only end that has ever been glorious is the end in motion. There is no glory in quitting. I know what I am. I know who and what I was. Who I will be is determined by what I do. As of this moment, I am continuing on.
These are the bloodied facts of my life: I am a two- time brain tumor surgery survivor with four surgeries above the neck and one below. I have relearned how to walk five times; I have walked to the precipice on weakest legs and looked over, wanting to take another, final, step. I have had my heart broken many times and have broken other hearts just as many. I have committed heinous crimes, yet somewhere in the back of my fevered mind I hear the voices of angels as they thank me for what I have done for others of God’s children. At times I wish I could remember what I might have done to help them. At other times it seems to me better that I do not remember, for so many wonderful memories would only be so many more excuses to lock myself in the past. I would not go back into my past and change it, not even my crimes. I will not continue to harrow up in my soul, guilt and shame and fear of recrimination.
I am who I am. I have made terrible mistakes. I have been through terrifyingly hot fire. I have experienced death and heartache and despair. I have enjoyed love, and caring, and joy. I have been attacked by the adversary time and time again. And time and time again, I have been saved by my Advocate. I know from personal experience that this life is heart-breakingly difficult at times, and that we sometimes only wish it over. I know how much it hurts to fall, whether by our own choices or not. It can hurt even more to get back up again. I know firsthand the powerful lure of carnal pleasures. It can be so easy to forget who I am, that I am a son of Almighty God, that I bear the Melchizedec Priesthood, that I am capable of saving lives and also capable of destroying them. I know that God lives and that He loves me enough to let me fall, so that I may learn to differentiate between good and evil. I have learned that my life is precious to God. I have learned that the Savior has walked by my side all my life, and that he knows who I am. I suppose that through everything that has happened to me I have become closer to the person God wants me to be, though I have taken many detours on the road to getting there.
God is kind. He has always allowed me another chance, another opportunity to turn back to Him after I have turned away yet again. The darkness attracts me so strongly that all I want at times is to turn and sprint headlong in its direction. The biggest question for me is “What do I really want?” The problem with asking that question and finding the answer is simply that I want opposing things, things that cannot be had at the same time; things that I must make a choice between if I am to make progress in either. It hurts to think about it; finding something, anything, to numb or forget the pain becomes the subsequent, consuming endeavor. There are many times when all I want is to cease feeling anything at all. At times it is as though I am bound, suspended over a bed of smoldering coals, and someone I cannot see tells me that things will get better. At other times it is as though I am being drawn and quartered, but at an excruciatingly slow pace, and someone else I cannot see tells me that I am doing remarkably well.
I am not doing well! I am being torn to shreds inside!
I will walk on. I will fall. I will get back up. I will fall yet again, and I will struggle from my knees. They are bloody; I have fallen upon them too many times for it not to be so. I have discovered what I want more than anything. I have learned that knowing what I really desire only fans the flames, and yet, I still want to know! I am determined to hurt! It would seem that trials, troubles, tribulations, toils, difficulties, impossibilities, pain, hardship, and every other descriptive substitute for opposition here in mortality are but different ways of spelling out “par for the course.” They are nothing but meaningless words until one actually experiences them firsthand. Here it is a given that a soul- any soul- will feel “growing pains,” whether he or she is striving for greatness or not. For those who ARE striving for such, however, it is a given that all possible opposition will be stacked against them. It is said that only with such opposing forces in operation can one expect to be CHANGED from mediocrity to greatness. When one battles with depression in addition to other challenges, things are made so much more difficult. Though such a one may desire to succeed, the desire to give up each time one falls is greater than it would otherwise be, and the attractiveness of such an option monumental. That the pain will stop if one gives up is the most tormenting thought imaginable; yet another reason that one wishes the numbness to set in. When one has made an unbroken habit of getting up, it is impossible to stay down forever! It is impossible to grant oneself leave to rest for any substantial length of time; it is only possible for someone else to grant such a miraculous thing. The only difference between quitting and grace is whose hand it is that falls.
I know not how many miles I have walked, but I know that many, many hours have passed. I know that my limbs ache, though they ache less now than before. I know not if this means I am at last becoming numb. I know that there are many who would take me wherever I wanted to go if I asked them, but they I also wish to forget. All connections to humanity, all feeling, all understanding; I want it gone. I want to forget who I am; I want to forget everything and everyone I’ve known. It hurts to love. I don't want to hurt any more.
No more signs. No more guideposts, whatever their color. No more understanding. Numbness.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Word Club Part Two Cont.
‘I am concerned for Janet, Rudy. And for Jim.’
Rudy stood in his customary place behind the front desk, puzzled and surprised.
‘I believed that they were doing quite well, sir. I was not aware that there was cause for concern.’
‘Do you know what is happening this very moment?’
‘I believe I do, sir. Janet has just disappeared by becoming one with the trees, and Jim has just begun his march with the battle clan.’
‘You know as well as I do that what happens in the ‘Word Club’, as we have chosen to call it, is real. The people are real, the creatures of the wild are real, and the forces at work throughout the inner- and outer- world of the Word Club are real.
‘Yes, sir, I do’.
‘You know, then, that the danger is also real. The risks, the possibilities- both wonderful and terrible- are real. While it is possible for one to create conceivably anything, it is a given that creatures, people, and inherent forces, once created, will think and act for themselves. Do you understand, Rudy?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Both Janet and Jim are, I believe, under the impression that while they can be hurt here, they are not in any real danger- that they are virtually invulnerable in the Word Club. I know you have given them a warning or two, phrased pleasantly for their benefit, but they still seem to view the Word Club as their own little playground; an all-new jungle gym, built just yesterday for their personal amusement. How long has our little club been around, Rudy?’
‘For over two hundred thirty years, sir, under various names and guises.’
‘Precisely. Over two centuries of new ideas, all growing and expanding on top of one another, with nothing to hinder the growth. That is the amount of wildness we are dealing with. That is the amount Janet and Jim have unwittingly begun to open themselves to- Janet in particular.’
‘What can I do to help, sir?’
The Perpetuator nodded, once. ‘We need you to take up the role we once had you set aside. We need you to go in again, as one of them. We still count you as our foremost field agent. You will need every bit of your experience, every ounce of your savvy to guide them through the rest of this, their second experience in the Word Club. We need you to leave now, this very moment, if you would.’
‘As you wish, sir’.
His eyes shining, Rudy left his place behind the front desk and approached the opposing wall. A most curious circular picture hung there. Within the smooth golden frame, molten silver flowed, running in an endless whirlpool of glowing color. Never did a single drop of the liquid metal fall out of the golden frame. Rudy stood still, gazing steadily, unblinkingly. After a moment of this the whirlpool stilled, and Rudy beheld a group of broad-shouldered, hard-faced men marching down a hillside. Another moment, and they were out of sight, the sound of their marching feet gradually fading away.
Still he gazed, allowing himself to take in the now-quiet scene. All seemed still at the top of the hill, among the trees. Rudy allowed his eyes to lose their focus, everything becoming blurred. For a moment longer everything was still, and then he caught it- movement just at the edge of his vision. He could not have said whether it was inside or outside the frame, for he did not turn to look; instead, he stayed as he was, in the same relaxed state. Steadily, the entire hidden scene began to unfold before him, and he saw where Janet now was.
She was not alone.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Rudy stood in his customary place behind the front desk, puzzled and surprised.
‘I believed that they were doing quite well, sir. I was not aware that there was cause for concern.’
‘Do you know what is happening this very moment?’
‘I believe I do, sir. Janet has just disappeared by becoming one with the trees, and Jim has just begun his march with the battle clan.’
‘You know as well as I do that what happens in the ‘Word Club’, as we have chosen to call it, is real. The people are real, the creatures of the wild are real, and the forces at work throughout the inner- and outer- world of the Word Club are real.
‘Yes, sir, I do’.
‘You know, then, that the danger is also real. The risks, the possibilities- both wonderful and terrible- are real. While it is possible for one to create conceivably anything, it is a given that creatures, people, and inherent forces, once created, will think and act for themselves. Do you understand, Rudy?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Both Janet and Jim are, I believe, under the impression that while they can be hurt here, they are not in any real danger- that they are virtually invulnerable in the Word Club. I know you have given them a warning or two, phrased pleasantly for their benefit, but they still seem to view the Word Club as their own little playground; an all-new jungle gym, built just yesterday for their personal amusement. How long has our little club been around, Rudy?’
‘For over two hundred thirty years, sir, under various names and guises.’
‘Precisely. Over two centuries of new ideas, all growing and expanding on top of one another, with nothing to hinder the growth. That is the amount of wildness we are dealing with. That is the amount Janet and Jim have unwittingly begun to open themselves to- Janet in particular.’
‘What can I do to help, sir?’
The Perpetuator nodded, once. ‘We need you to take up the role we once had you set aside. We need you to go in again, as one of them. We still count you as our foremost field agent. You will need every bit of your experience, every ounce of your savvy to guide them through the rest of this, their second experience in the Word Club. We need you to leave now, this very moment, if you would.’
‘As you wish, sir’.
His eyes shining, Rudy left his place behind the front desk and approached the opposing wall. A most curious circular picture hung there. Within the smooth golden frame, molten silver flowed, running in an endless whirlpool of glowing color. Never did a single drop of the liquid metal fall out of the golden frame. Rudy stood still, gazing steadily, unblinkingly. After a moment of this the whirlpool stilled, and Rudy beheld a group of broad-shouldered, hard-faced men marching down a hillside. Another moment, and they were out of sight, the sound of their marching feet gradually fading away.
Still he gazed, allowing himself to take in the now-quiet scene. All seemed still at the top of the hill, among the trees. Rudy allowed his eyes to lose their focus, everything becoming blurred. For a moment longer everything was still, and then he caught it- movement just at the edge of his vision. He could not have said whether it was inside or outside the frame, for he did not turn to look; instead, he stayed as he was, in the same relaxed state. Steadily, the entire hidden scene began to unfold before him, and he saw where Janet now was.
She was not alone.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Choice
Once again total war fully fills me within
Much more and I feel I will die.
I search for some window, no matter how small
I can’t breathe, I can’t sweat, I can’t cry!
What path can I take to find my release?
I have not the power to Mend
…One by one, angels beautiful come to my side
A most bittersweet chance to lend.
Meetings past I recall, they were not in this guise-
I merely saw damsels sublime.
Now I hear their thoughts, a heart- wrenching choice
They are here, to tell me, is mine.
I can keep on my path, continue this course-
Endure my own thoughts till I’m through,
Or I can be altered, no longer myself
Unable to grow, always new.
What a terrible choice! Forever a babe-
Never growing, never thinking- no pain.
Or always growing, and ever hurting,
Fearing that I’ll go insane!
If I stay it may kill me, but my life will be real
If I leave, there’s no chance I’ll return…
"There are those who will need you, should you choose to stay;
Vital lessons you’ll help them to learn."
I cannot choose! I wish for both!
I want to grow out my heart.
I am eager to love, yet I feel deep inside
That so doing will tear me apart!
Paralyzed to inaction- they make my choice:
Gathering linen shining white,
Slowly, gently, they wrap me within
Until I am engulfed by the light.
Just before I am gone they whisper
"Someday you again may live
When you can take the wondrous love within
And every part of it give…"
Much more and I feel I will die.
I search for some window, no matter how small
I can’t breathe, I can’t sweat, I can’t cry!
What path can I take to find my release?
I have not the power to Mend
…One by one, angels beautiful come to my side
A most bittersweet chance to lend.
Meetings past I recall, they were not in this guise-
I merely saw damsels sublime.
Now I hear their thoughts, a heart- wrenching choice
They are here, to tell me, is mine.
I can keep on my path, continue this course-
Endure my own thoughts till I’m through,
Or I can be altered, no longer myself
Unable to grow, always new.
What a terrible choice! Forever a babe-
Never growing, never thinking- no pain.
Or always growing, and ever hurting,
Fearing that I’ll go insane!
If I stay it may kill me, but my life will be real
If I leave, there’s no chance I’ll return…
"There are those who will need you, should you choose to stay;
Vital lessons you’ll help them to learn."
I cannot choose! I wish for both!
I want to grow out my heart.
I am eager to love, yet I feel deep inside
That so doing will tear me apart!
Paralyzed to inaction- they make my choice:
Gathering linen shining white,
Slowly, gently, they wrap me within
Until I am engulfed by the light.
Just before I am gone they whisper
"Someday you again may live
When you can take the wondrous love within
And every part of it give…"
Yes
‘Yes,’ she says to me.
‘You have done great things.
You have endured trials, troubles,
And tribulations too.
You have also made many mistakes,
Though you have tried to rectify them
As best you could.
After it is all said and done,
What do you want now,
At the end of it all?’
‘I just want it over,’
I say as the tears spill
Down my cheeks.
‘Please, can’t it be over?’
‘It is not for me to say.
It is for God to decide
When to take you Home.
You will have to wait upon Him.’
‘I have been waiting for so long already.
My heart is breaking. I feel that I cannot
Bear this much longer before I break altogether.’
‘Perhaps that is what he is waiting for:
A broken heart and a contrite spirit.’
‘It hurts,’ I say to her.
‘It hurts so much to live.
I don’t understand why
I must go through this.’
‘I do not know either,’
She replies somewhat sadly.
‘I do know that you just have to keep going,
No matter what, and you will win the prize.’
‘Please,’ I cry. ‘Will you pray with me?’
‘I have been praying with and for you all along.
I will pray with you now, as well.’
‘You have done great things.
You have endured trials, troubles,
And tribulations too.
You have also made many mistakes,
Though you have tried to rectify them
As best you could.
After it is all said and done,
What do you want now,
At the end of it all?’
‘I just want it over,’
I say as the tears spill
Down my cheeks.
‘Please, can’t it be over?’
‘It is not for me to say.
It is for God to decide
When to take you Home.
You will have to wait upon Him.’
‘I have been waiting for so long already.
My heart is breaking. I feel that I cannot
Bear this much longer before I break altogether.’
‘Perhaps that is what he is waiting for:
A broken heart and a contrite spirit.’
‘It hurts,’ I say to her.
‘It hurts so much to live.
I don’t understand why
I must go through this.’
‘I do not know either,’
She replies somewhat sadly.
‘I do know that you just have to keep going,
No matter what, and you will win the prize.’
‘Please,’ I cry. ‘Will you pray with me?’
‘I have been praying with and for you all along.
I will pray with you now, as well.’
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