Friday, January 11, 2013

Now I Remember Whose Arms Lifted Me

60 years old and still going through changes. I'm starting to write a book with the working title as posted. The story has a happy ending, but will never be confused with Disneyesque fairytales. The working subtitle is
Spirit, Soul, Abuse, and Celebration. This probably will change.

Fiction or autobiography? I'm not saying at this point. It's not always easy to tell the difference...

5/21/2013
Oops. I see. I post, you reply. See my reply below or above or whatever. Back surgery sometime in June.

8/10/13
See comments...still getting the hang of this.

8/13/2013
Writing a paper for class, learning a lot from elderly people I am interviewing. Next week I start work.

3 comments:

  1. Alright, so I'm 61 now, obviously not great on follow through. Still attending Andover Newton Theological School, still looking for work. Until I make more headway on the book, I'll share a little verse now and then. Or maybe bits of papers.
    From Me, Mom, and the Bypassed Heart:
    Foreword
    I remember, as a kid, learning mountain by mountain, the pain, sweat, and achievement of steady climbing, ultimately reaching each peak. Early on, I was frustrated beyond words at those times when my elation was cut short by unwanted information; I was standing on a “false peak”, with miles to go before the true summit. Looking back, I realize the view from both peaks was usually breathtaking, and both peaks marked accomplishments there was no reason to feel crestfallen about. (Pun intended.)
    A couple of years after Mom's death I wrote the poem KILLER DREAM. It became part of a
    collection called A Victor's Psalm, which consisted of four sections, titled Horror Show, Out of Ashes,
    Primal Light, and Awe. KILLER DREAM was in the first section; as the poem was being written, it became a sincere effort to understand and forgive my mother. Some of the closing lines show this
    struggle, I believe:
    You know, she had every right to dream those dreams,
    try to find a life where no man or woman
    would oppress or betray or abandon her, no children
    would resent her, throw her mistakes in her face
    like acid...

    ...we can know, from her pain and ours,
    to make those payments, no matter what,
    no matter what, to make those payments
    on the loves in our lives right now,
    in this time, in this world
    we bring ourselves to this life
    as payment received and good,
    with no return or guarantee needed,
    no matter what.1

    This poem was grueling to write, yet I was not only heartbroken, but proud and satisfied. For me, the realizations in those words were an epiphany. I could lay down the weight of pathos and bathos which had poisoned my relationship with my mother since before I could remember. The view was exhilarating, my vision clear for the first time in quite a while. I thought I had reached the peak of forgiveness. I should have been proud; I had come a long way. Yet there were more miles to hike before the true summit, as I learned more than twenty years later in a course on forgiveness taught by Professor J. Earl Thomas. There may be another, higher peak ahead, but for me this paper is at least an important stone in a significant trail cairn. I will use the concepts of Enright and Worthington as a trail manual, and use some of the structure of the course as created by Professor Thompson for orientation. Here we go.

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  2. Iridescent Scarflower

    No thorns, no rose, a rarer
    plant like some weird daisy
    with glittering edges
    scattering dark rainbow shards,
    favoring shades.of indigo.

    Box shaped stem,
    leaves like scimitars,
    ray petals thin as onion skin,
    fragile one would think, with
    central florets tiny dots of onyx.

    Poor baffled botanists,
    the lucky ones who meet with this,
    hypothesize a unique ability
    to secrete something like micah,
    crystalized upon all margins.

    “Whyfore the name?” you may ask,
    perhaps in normal language.
    In certain configurations micah facets
    form keen as Sweeney's razor.
    Workgloves might as well be tissue paper.

    Even goats avoid these pretties,
    other than bloody-lipped greenhorns.
    One could use forceps and shears perhaps,
    yet shouldn't life so beautifully adapted
    continue life precisely where it is?

    30th of June, 2013
    ~ lwj

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  3. Start a new job as Crisis Counselor August 19th! Whhooooeeee!

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