A writer?

A “writer” or “author” I am not. At least not by intention, or ambition, but simply so because it seemed the direction of integration in the line of my life - what was next.

Prayer beads are sometimes called, at least I think they are, ‘worry beads.’ And when I trace back from here to then I sense, and laugh at myself, for tall the various and sundry reasons of me, the why, what-for, where I am and will be beyond this moment unto death and beyond the beyond.

Metaphorically I should use ‘pearls’  but instead I’ll describe myself, being a pebble, worn smooth and more so from experience. Strung together as neither prayer or worry beads, but a necklace of experience and love for it all . . . including the “going home,” Or as Emily Dickinson said; “ . . . called back”

Upwelling water, dripping from my open eyes, tells more than I can ever say to others about, or of love, what is joy!

Light like words I adore, having for a, now, long long time; yet never knew what to do with them - either or  both. Conceptually they are dissimilar, one being a symbol, the other ephemeral. Yet equally  transient - revelatory and fluid too towards what end or meaning definitive. Nearer death at least consciously so knowing my probabilities I still see myself as a child stomping in mud puddles of light and words. Seeing and hearing the splash feeling the moisture wicking up my pants, arms pumping up in celebration not supplication.

Validation is difficult to find. Add that I have had a victim posture for so long taking silence to be another way of telling me that I was unworthy of hearing, too dull; valueless. So it was the dialogs imagined, but actually monologues, internal, reasoning why I had value so swiftly dismissed by others important to me. Today I discovered a new validation. One that healed a long held sense, mostly of guilt, regret, an unbidden sense of fault, sin, flaw, dysfunction towards the bride of my youth for leaving her:

"I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

. . . there have been others; women I loved . . . and left . . . riddled - NO! - the word shred comes to mind’ as in shredding myself. From whom I sought what was impossible, for they were not my mother: mute, prone to rage, mercurial, immutable, capricious, abandoning me. In time, with endless effort I have come to sense they abandoned themselves, but then that is, seemingly, “normal” given the demands of a woman giving birth to a child dependent upon them thus becoming that new - always new to them - thing: a mother.

And the folly of seeking sexual intimacy a surrogate for her, either/neither, loving themselves by yielding finally to me. Sex is not love, it is something else. A facet, at best, of what is best: friendship, trust, confidence and intimacy . . . to be known and loved nonetheless.

"He who looks on a true friend looks, as it were, upon a kind of image of himself: wherefore friends, though absent, are still present; though in poverty, they are rich; though weak, yet in the enjoyment of health; and, what is still more difficult to assert, though dead, they are alive." - Cicero

. . . I am blessed by serendipity, what C. G. Jung called synchronicity . . . i have faith in that and for which I weep freely in gratitude; what impels my prayers, works and faith, faith and prayer: all is work, for work is my joy.

Think, please, call and response. . .
and be well.

“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. ” - Nietzsche

130323 05:47 A writer?
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved