121227 08:22 for what
Prayer, now seems similar to when I was a child. Filling bottles with notes, sealed, then buried them in the low tide of my life.
At hight tide, so near the end of my voyage, the bottles, one-by-one bob up in my passage, before and after my wake; all considerations resolved.
I am not confident of posting so much of what I have written between the anniversary of Randy’s death adding the massacre in Newtown Connecticut; all at once. It seems that had I not, I would stop posting altogether.
Regardless of the calendar my new year has begun on Winter’s Solstice. Regarding most, if not all, holidays I tend to hide and await their completion. I loathe crowds, and after forty-five years behind a camera working for print media, I feel that I have earned a respite.
The past weeks have been a trial for me. Rendering a new point of view fully conscious of being transparent and of no import save to the few friends I have. I find a certain wealth in this perspective. A freedom always available yet only now received.
"He has not lived badly whose birth and death has been unnoticed by the world." - Horace
Yet I will persist in my attempts to remind those who read me it is possible to save yourself. Absent the applause of anyone save for the sound of one hand. Which, to me, is more real than death.
121225 03:39 gratitude
Once, long ago, I was in therapy with a gay nudist Episcopal Priest who asked about my dreams; he being a Jungian. I was able to respond with alacrity since I have, from beginning to end, had a problem for which he, in order to remember his, had to drink copious amounts of water. So arose my practice of awakening at whatever hour to void and being enchanted with mine; the dreams that is.
Ask and you will receive . . . for me to awaken this morn at the time I did reminded and reminds me of the simple joy of silence. Deliciously known on “snow days” when there is a very special quiet the world muffled further with snow and the night has a special glowing luminance.
First fond memories, of the precious few I’ve had since birth, is of a cat named Mozart who stole into my crib. Stroking him reminds me of the sound of snow falling silently in the snow globe of my soul. And now Annie, my companion cat, to and for whom I am hers, reminds me again of peace. This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, awakening with Annie purring beside me, I stroking her paws.
To know the good of God one needs silence to hear the love.
Reverberating now, remains the thought, expressed by my sister. That we, mutually yet never before expressed, wished that the overwhelming gifts beneath the dead but decorated tree had been metered out in small ways throughout the year instead.
On top of, over the ruins of former temples, have been the holy days of Christianity been built burying the terror of the longest night passed at winter solstice -- the atavistic fear that the world would end, the sun never returning. M’s birthday is the 22nd of December. A first, our being able to celebrate the day at lunch together. I said, “We’re a pair aren’t we? Never having known love until late in life.”
“Yes . . . . ”
Love, the absence of fear, the vanquish of death, are gifts given by the person who’s birthday we celebrate this day. And the reason for my quiet tears of gratitude now.
Of such that I can give, by way of monetary gesture, I, to date, have given something on the order of, approximately six hundred dollars to Wikipedia. Unsure that I can afford it, living sub poverty on social security, this year I will give fifty five dollars: thirty to Wikipedia and the remainder to Culture Book -- both are not for profit enterprises, greatly appreciated by me and sought to foster their continuance for the education they promise.
It is possibly the best gift I can give beyond my meager attempts to detail the potential of healing; to give the potential of healing for others. In my humble way nurturing the shade of a tree and providence of its fruit for when I am gone.
Discovered this morning -- via the genius of Victor Hugo:
Do you hear the people sing
Lost in the valley of the night?
It is the music of a people
Who are climbing to the light.
For the wretched of the earth
There is a flame that never dies.
Even the darkest night will end
And the sun will rise.
They will live again in freedom
In the Garden of the Lord.
They will walk behind the plough-share,
They will put away the sword.
The chain will be broken
And all men will have their reward!
- Les Misérables . . . the quote of the day at Wikiquotes.
Beloved, be well. One and all; peace and goodwill to all life. . . and, of course, to those who have passed.
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
