Love’s reward is
itself. Not what we receive but what we give. C. G. Jung suggested
that we must “constellate” grief. A statement taking me years to
understand in my own way. Remaining until these past few days of love
realized as life renewed. Drawn kicking and screaming from the tomb
of my solitary cell into whatever comes next.
I think grief, as
expressed in love, has and end. Discovering the gift of what was is
sufficient. The departed, were they now able to speak, would lovingly
ask that we get on with our lives. I write consciously: that we
grieve differently and for different things. Speaking for myself,
exclusively, I remember the child who grieved not being loved. At
least in a way comprehensible. Then remembering dad
calling the time he died to say goodbye. In a sincere and profound
sense, realized now, he healed my self-enslavement to his business
ambitions. For which nothing but his last words could heal.
Do
I redeem myself or them? Absolution is rendered by God alone. What
remains of and within me is a rock steady confidence that they gave
what they had to give, giving no more, nor less, to themselves. Add.
To blame another is to disable knowing yourself: the talent/genius,
resilience, will to live and love infinitely now.
Futile
I suppose but I do ask would I do it all over again? Yes! All the
dings, bents, scars, wattles and warts are who I am now. Within
them—all combined—I find myself at peace and joy able to love
again despite the vicissitudes and darts potential. My wrinkles more
now are from smiles rather than age.
Death is no failure
since in life there are options otherwise intolerable.
But then one must of
needs spend one’s life well, preferably by one’s own measurement
of values independent of those whose lives are led by slogans — who
practice nothing of what they preach/teach. Think of life as one
dollar, then think how much of that one dollar you are willing to
spend that love, life, liberty continue farther beyond your one
singular self. Think quality not quantity.
The problem with wealth
is there is no end, never enough, maniacal in its dictates. Becoming
amoral unethical enslaving all else to its desire. Think addiction.
"Great
occasions do not make heroes or cowards; they simply unveil them to
the eyes of men. Silently and imperceptibly, as we wake or sleep, we
grow strong or weak; and at last some crisis shows what we have
become."
“What we can do
for another is the test of powers; what we can suffer is the test of
love.”
- Brooke Foss
Westcott
I do not write to be
memorable. But that you remember yourself, as precious. Regardless of
all judgments against that value; until you meet the Judge. Cognizant
that I can change nothing but myself; the only paradigm available to
me. My perceptions and concerns have in significant extent been
answered and my process is what faith can be, at the least to me:
vast. The remaining concerns are more sharply drawn, revealed in
greater contrast, begun with the scars upon my heart. Deeply incised
into the body of it.
What I am, is, as I
was, merely biodegradable first to last, yet in this time I’ve come
to know and love all of life. And of you beloved be beloved of
yourself.
In parting this time,
need I remind you, to do no harm?
130605 EDT 04:44 loves
rewards
©
2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved
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