Let us now praise famous men/women, and our parents who begot us . . .
In a sincere, appreciation and fulsome gratitude do I acknowledge the many who I would praise yet remain slave nor slavish to none not even God.
But some I would praise more highly than others simply for their spirit of inquiry and curiosity pushing the boundaries of the human psyche beyond the limitless reaches of both God and all Creation.
At the inception/inspiration of this post I had in mind Maria Popova for her manifold gifts apparent in Brainpickings. And other women who, of needs, will remain nameless for now. In this, my childlike, construct and perception: men seem most fixated upon goals achievable while women see potential undefined and nurturing prize that. Upon the endless dust of creation neither leave traces save upon the sentient. Creation is not a product but a process self-rewarding; an act of love beyond price or praise.
At full flood there is within these moments a choir of thoughts possible. Yet sticking to my compendium of encounters, clues and stumblings in the past 24 hours I will say this.
A Blog is by its nature not definitive but born from journal keeping; the most intimate act possible in humans, solitary, recorded. For me without aggrandizement, pretence or illusion I write to heal others who like me suffer obscenely--in my case, make that past tense--and so it is apparent prayer.
I am willing to be one pebble piled like The Tower of Babble to reach truths I know extant. And if I seem fractious or fatuous it seems a small price to pay so long as those few who read these words are engaged in the eyes of their heart and the hearing of their feet as they journey as well all do in life or death.
As for myself, this aging white boy from Greenwich Connecticut and the halcyon Ohio River Valley born and breed, I don’t care to live another moment. The motive to publish has nothing to do with either immortality or any quantitative measure or treasure.
Think of yourself growing and gestating into a new life undefinable yet worth every tear God might bestow the labor in delivery which for me is mere play. And for God’s Love I would be anything, mendicant fool or otherwise.
I undergo constant redefinition both of intention and by experience. It is not a singular event like Jesus upon the Cross. Nor is it the sacrifice, of protest a Buddhist self immolating, that I would have you memorialize but these things in your own life and consciousness.
What follows, from this day forward, will be an annotation of a life and work lived. Apparently fractious but a seamless continuity to me; a reprise of childhood sans the hammer blows forging a self/soul. Love is acceptance of everything including our selves unlovable. From this basis do I ask you to love yourselves and ask, for in asking you will receive from the Author of Creation.
In closing, for now, one or two caveats: Be Here Now & Do No Harm . . . it is not you or me but we who must find the answers least we be no more.
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