Few of us realize that we have a God given right to be ourselves

100106 12:06
The Hurdy Gurdy is being played faster these days. Solo, it calls the dance for life and liberty at a frenzied pace. I know few as blessed as myself born, raised and sooner-or-later to die suffused in music: frantic and slow, laconic sighs, blues to minuets. Never forget Stravinsky!
If you want to live--dancing--you must pay the ‘fiddler’ or hurdy gurdy musician.
Few are allowed to stand aside as audience since all are required to leap and shout about everything under the sun. The riotous din is, staggering, drunk with chaos.
Sadly I must invoke memories of my father’s intentions for me. It is merely that our parents are our first and primary teachers; by word and demonstration. A poor, gimp and lame imitation of our real Mother/Father/God.
In recognition that I could have been burned at the stake, then--and perhaps now, I stand and deliver my experience for whatever it is worth should anyone attend me.
Life is a participatory event and it may well be that I am both pagan and heretical; I’ll take the change. In empathy and with, or so I now believe, kindness--believe me it wasn’t my fault--I never asked to be born. He gave up his quest for fame and fortune and burdened me with a musical vocation; selling the instruments, and ink defaced flesh of dead trees.
Vaulting the walls surrounding culture and civilization, I am impaled upon my pike/petard. Knowing that trees sing, in fall, winter, spring and summer, I am stunned, actually knocked unconscious by my metaphor and simile, remembering the ‘forbidden fruit’ and the tree upon which Jesus was hung sighing His last breath. Trees actually sing in birth, life and death. Perhaps I am a Druid?
Think the Amazon River basin denuded.
. . . for the lowing of cows.
Oh well.
Few of us realize that we have a God given right to be ourselves; as painful as that may be to the administrators of the kindling and match to immolate me before I finish this sentence. Peace is not seditious. Now doesn’t that sentiment open doors of iron, steel or stone?
Wisdom is a woman I court daily and constantly fail her embrace. However amongst us she remains a scullery maid in the basement of our institutions. At the loss of a shy brief half smile she awaits our attention flirting with her role as mother, wife, sister, cousin, lover. Or whatever role we assign her in our oblivion. At what cost? The loss of everything we cherish: peace, love and the meaning of life.
The Shepard’s Crook will soon drag me from this brief stage, into the night preceding & following my dance--in no lime light, lurching--into the endless night again.
I hear no applause, one-handed, or otherwise, I tap-dance for myself pleasure.
In closing my ‘act’ I can only say that I celebrate both sets of parents tossing roses to them off stage.