I am afraid to be alone with you sometimes,
Especially when the rain falls,
And evening pulls its dark hood over the sun’s eyes.
I refuse to be alone with you sometimes,
When I lay awake,
And breathe into that empty void.
I am terrified to be alone with you sometimes,
When there is no one else around,
And the silent ticking of wasted time falls faster and faster.
I breathe deep,
In and out,
Exhale and yet want to scream and shout.
Strong,
Strong,
Stand strong.
I need to be alone with you always,
It is the only way I can grow,
And understand what to remove and what needs to remain.
I have to be alone with you always,
To tell me everything will be okay,
And that the road ahead is sweeter than the road behind.
I want to be alone with you always,
Memorable times of days before,
And better days yet to come.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Without a Father Figure
Crash. Boom. Bang.
I walked softly downstairs to see where the noise came from. I saw my step-father passed out on the couch. It was 2:30 in the morning and he snored away on the couch. I looked him over for a couple of minutes and listened to his heavy rasps of air.
I went back upstairs, sat in front of the computer, and thought of the news I heard today. I knew it was coming. I just wasn't ready to hear it. I just didn't want to hear it.
I hope you can handle what I am about to say. I just need to get it out and rid my heart of the terrible weight that has burdened it for so long. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I was one when my mother left my father. I don't recall the night it happened. I only vaguely remember waking up on Christmas morning and my brothers telling me of the bad happening the night before. I went downstairs with them and noticed that it was a different living room, a different Christmas tree, and a different house. Funny. My mom left my father on Christmas Eve, took her sons to her sister's house, and started a holiday tradition that lasted for many years. From that moment on, we went to my aunt's house every Christmas for dinner.
I never knew my father. Bill was not exactly the affectionate type. I don't remember hugs. No. None of that. I only remember one kiss from him. Unfortunately, I also remember the bitter sting of his palm one time. It happened when I was five years old. Mom ran out of time to find me a sitter and had to take me to a family wedding outside of St. John's. My parents had been divorced maybe a year or two at the most at the time.
I wore only shorts and a rugby t-shirt because of the summertime heat. We met up with Bill and he was not happy to see me tagging along. They argued in my uncle's kitchen while I sat in the living room. Then he called me in. I was terrified of this man. I knew who Bill was but I had no connection with him. I immediately latched onto my mom's pant leg. He reached over, pulled me off, called me a baby, and tossed me into the cupboards. I bounced back off it and careened straight into his open palm.
Bam. Right on the kisser. I can still feel the hard cold linoleum under my ass when my body hit the floor.
I don't remember much after that, except for the fact he bought me soda pop all night, and told me that he didn't mean to hit me. I sucked my liquid sugar through a straw and nodded at him in silence. Sure. Just please don't hit me again. I don't like it. But I dared not say that out loud.
I grew up in a house of boys without a male figure. My brothers tried to be a father to me, but our household was just too violent. Not a day went by without a fistfight. To this day, I am still in awe at my mother. How she put up with it all is beyond me. She only pulled us closer and refused to give up on any of us.
My mom met a man many years later when I was eleven years old. He became a male figure in my life but well; not a father figure. At that point, I had become so disassociated with what a father figure meant anyway. My mom was the law in our family. She was the solvent that melted away the sadness of not having a father. She was everything to me growing up.
I met a girl when I turned 21 and we ended up moving into her father's house. I became close with him. Jim was such an intelligent man with a caring and gentle soul. He opened not only his doors for me but openly embraced me into his family. We hung out in his room and watched old movies. I listened as he explained the history of etymology behind historical names. He had been a teacher once and he taught me during our conversations. How to love a child and the small little things that make a difference in a child's life. Kisses he said. Lots and lots of kisses. You can never give them enough kisses. Then he laughed at his simple words. And I laughed with him.
We even took a technology program together for a year. I sat in the same class with him and envied his ability to get better marks than me. Well son, he said, maybe you should actually study. Then he laughed at his simple words. And I laughed with him.
His daughter and I eventually separated but I continued to live with Jim even when she moved out. I loved her father. He was the father figure I never knew. He was always there for me. His door was always open. And, believe me, I took advantage of that open door policy many, many times. It was incredible to know that I was like a son to him.
Time went on and people move on as we are known to do. I moved out, left the province, and traveled across North America for five years. I spent each of those years in a different mountain every winter and snowboarded with abandon. I almost even died on a scary, dark night during those same years. I lost touch with all of Jim's lessons and forgot about everything my mom told me about drugs. I almost drowned under the dark heavy weight of misspent youth.
Yet, as those years passed, I still called him. We always knew how the other was and he always wanted to know if I was being safe. He was one of the few I called when I dropped back into town to visit mom. We always went out for lunch. He always paid. The last time I saw him was a couple of years ago.
I am back in town again. I emailed my old girlfriend to meet up, have some drinks, and meet her new fiancee. I have not seen or even talked to her in over eight years. I asked her how her father was and noticed an absence in her written reply.
Today, I called another old mutual friend of ours who I had also not talked to in over eight years. Have you talked to our friend, she asked? Yes, I said, and I left a phone message with her last night. Do you know what happened, she asked. Do you know that her father passed away from cancer last year? She mentioned that she had no idea how to get ahold of you. She told me how close you and her father were.
No, I said, no I didn't know that. I hung up the phone a couple moments later and put it all out of my mind. I spent the day shopping with my mom, saw my old friend, got a haircut, and dropped mom off at home later on in the night.
I drove to get some food and then it hit me. He's gone. He's really, really...gone. No chance to even say goodbye. Gone. The one and only father figure in my life...gone.
The keyboard blurs in my vision. I think of all the motivating reasons I have created over the years to make sense of my life. To push me forward with haste. To make sure that this life does not pass me by and leave me with regrets. For me primarily, for my mother, for my close friends, heck, even for the random strangers I will hopefully inspire to live a life more than ordinary.
I think about my age and guage how much time I have left to make an impact in this world. People talk about age all the time. We are a culture so inudated and saturated with youth that we forget what comes with age. We turn a blind eye to the time needed to develop experience, to develop character; to develop a life. Oh getting old hey, some tell me. No, I say, actually I am just still a puppy. My age only represents the number of years I have been on this earth. I have many years still ahead of me and many journeys still to be walked.
But, for some reason, tonight, my life window grew a little shorter. A candle flame somewhere inside snuffed out, never to be lit again. He's gone. So, I will do my best to honour him with the time in this life that I have left. I will do my best to honour the only father I have ever known. I miss him. I will never have another father like him in my life ever again.
I think of Bill and of his last words to me over eight years ago. They were not of the kind, fatherly type. He suffered a major stroke a few months ago and does not even remember my name anymore. In his mind, I have never even existed. I could really care less. I don't know the man, never have, and really do not even care to know him. Sad.
My mom tells me she is so proud of the man I have become. I tell her that I have no idea what being a man really means. I never had a true example other than Jim. I have basically been building my image of a man the only way I know how: in my own image. Learning from my mistakes, avoiding those same mistakes in the future, and directing my life to a higher purpose.
I will continue to push on, Jim, and one day may we meet again to sit and talk. You may have used simple words to make your point, but you were never a simple man in my eyes. Thank you for all the times you pulled me aside and told me what it meant to have a son like me. Thanks for being the father I always wanted to have.
Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Now how I can survive without my friend of mine? My view is not perfect...yet somehow perfect. What I am to do? I've lost that part of me...will I be alright? Yeah will I make it?"
- Daniel Greaves of The Watchmen
I walked softly downstairs to see where the noise came from. I saw my step-father passed out on the couch. It was 2:30 in the morning and he snored away on the couch. I looked him over for a couple of minutes and listened to his heavy rasps of air.
I went back upstairs, sat in front of the computer, and thought of the news I heard today. I knew it was coming. I just wasn't ready to hear it. I just didn't want to hear it.
I hope you can handle what I am about to say. I just need to get it out and rid my heart of the terrible weight that has burdened it for so long. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I was one when my mother left my father. I don't recall the night it happened. I only vaguely remember waking up on Christmas morning and my brothers telling me of the bad happening the night before. I went downstairs with them and noticed that it was a different living room, a different Christmas tree, and a different house. Funny. My mom left my father on Christmas Eve, took her sons to her sister's house, and started a holiday tradition that lasted for many years. From that moment on, we went to my aunt's house every Christmas for dinner.
I never knew my father. Bill was not exactly the affectionate type. I don't remember hugs. No. None of that. I only remember one kiss from him. Unfortunately, I also remember the bitter sting of his palm one time. It happened when I was five years old. Mom ran out of time to find me a sitter and had to take me to a family wedding outside of St. John's. My parents had been divorced maybe a year or two at the most at the time.
I wore only shorts and a rugby t-shirt because of the summertime heat. We met up with Bill and he was not happy to see me tagging along. They argued in my uncle's kitchen while I sat in the living room. Then he called me in. I was terrified of this man. I knew who Bill was but I had no connection with him. I immediately latched onto my mom's pant leg. He reached over, pulled me off, called me a baby, and tossed me into the cupboards. I bounced back off it and careened straight into his open palm.
Bam. Right on the kisser. I can still feel the hard cold linoleum under my ass when my body hit the floor.
I don't remember much after that, except for the fact he bought me soda pop all night, and told me that he didn't mean to hit me. I sucked my liquid sugar through a straw and nodded at him in silence. Sure. Just please don't hit me again. I don't like it. But I dared not say that out loud.
I grew up in a house of boys without a male figure. My brothers tried to be a father to me, but our household was just too violent. Not a day went by without a fistfight. To this day, I am still in awe at my mother. How she put up with it all is beyond me. She only pulled us closer and refused to give up on any of us.
My mom met a man many years later when I was eleven years old. He became a male figure in my life but well; not a father figure. At that point, I had become so disassociated with what a father figure meant anyway. My mom was the law in our family. She was the solvent that melted away the sadness of not having a father. She was everything to me growing up.
I met a girl when I turned 21 and we ended up moving into her father's house. I became close with him. Jim was such an intelligent man with a caring and gentle soul. He opened not only his doors for me but openly embraced me into his family. We hung out in his room and watched old movies. I listened as he explained the history of etymology behind historical names. He had been a teacher once and he taught me during our conversations. How to love a child and the small little things that make a difference in a child's life. Kisses he said. Lots and lots of kisses. You can never give them enough kisses. Then he laughed at his simple words. And I laughed with him.
We even took a technology program together for a year. I sat in the same class with him and envied his ability to get better marks than me. Well son, he said, maybe you should actually study. Then he laughed at his simple words. And I laughed with him.
His daughter and I eventually separated but I continued to live with Jim even when she moved out. I loved her father. He was the father figure I never knew. He was always there for me. His door was always open. And, believe me, I took advantage of that open door policy many, many times. It was incredible to know that I was like a son to him.
Time went on and people move on as we are known to do. I moved out, left the province, and traveled across North America for five years. I spent each of those years in a different mountain every winter and snowboarded with abandon. I almost even died on a scary, dark night during those same years. I lost touch with all of Jim's lessons and forgot about everything my mom told me about drugs. I almost drowned under the dark heavy weight of misspent youth.
Yet, as those years passed, I still called him. We always knew how the other was and he always wanted to know if I was being safe. He was one of the few I called when I dropped back into town to visit mom. We always went out for lunch. He always paid. The last time I saw him was a couple of years ago.
I am back in town again. I emailed my old girlfriend to meet up, have some drinks, and meet her new fiancee. I have not seen or even talked to her in over eight years. I asked her how her father was and noticed an absence in her written reply.
Today, I called another old mutual friend of ours who I had also not talked to in over eight years. Have you talked to our friend, she asked? Yes, I said, and I left a phone message with her last night. Do you know what happened, she asked. Do you know that her father passed away from cancer last year? She mentioned that she had no idea how to get ahold of you. She told me how close you and her father were.
No, I said, no I didn't know that. I hung up the phone a couple moments later and put it all out of my mind. I spent the day shopping with my mom, saw my old friend, got a haircut, and dropped mom off at home later on in the night.
I drove to get some food and then it hit me. He's gone. He's really, really...gone. No chance to even say goodbye. Gone. The one and only father figure in my life...gone.
The keyboard blurs in my vision. I think of all the motivating reasons I have created over the years to make sense of my life. To push me forward with haste. To make sure that this life does not pass me by and leave me with regrets. For me primarily, for my mother, for my close friends, heck, even for the random strangers I will hopefully inspire to live a life more than ordinary.
I think about my age and guage how much time I have left to make an impact in this world. People talk about age all the time. We are a culture so inudated and saturated with youth that we forget what comes with age. We turn a blind eye to the time needed to develop experience, to develop character; to develop a life. Oh getting old hey, some tell me. No, I say, actually I am just still a puppy. My age only represents the number of years I have been on this earth. I have many years still ahead of me and many journeys still to be walked.
But, for some reason, tonight, my life window grew a little shorter. A candle flame somewhere inside snuffed out, never to be lit again. He's gone. So, I will do my best to honour him with the time in this life that I have left. I will do my best to honour the only father I have ever known. I miss him. I will never have another father like him in my life ever again.
I think of Bill and of his last words to me over eight years ago. They were not of the kind, fatherly type. He suffered a major stroke a few months ago and does not even remember my name anymore. In his mind, I have never even existed. I could really care less. I don't know the man, never have, and really do not even care to know him. Sad.
My mom tells me she is so proud of the man I have become. I tell her that I have no idea what being a man really means. I never had a true example other than Jim. I have basically been building my image of a man the only way I know how: in my own image. Learning from my mistakes, avoiding those same mistakes in the future, and directing my life to a higher purpose.
I will continue to push on, Jim, and one day may we meet again to sit and talk. You may have used simple words to make your point, but you were never a simple man in my eyes. Thank you for all the times you pulled me aside and told me what it meant to have a son like me. Thanks for being the father I always wanted to have.
Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Now how I can survive without my friend of mine? My view is not perfect...yet somehow perfect. What I am to do? I've lost that part of me...will I be alright? Yeah will I make it?"
- Daniel Greaves of The Watchmen
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Juggling Act
I watch the pins cascade and tumble in the air. I deftly catch and switch each one from right to left, and keep my eye on the movement. Every once in a while, one drops mid-spin and lands softly upright on my head.
I ponder it and never stop juggling. Is it worth it? Will it sing? Does it have reason? Does it have zing? Will it last? Will it survive? When will it start? When will it thrive?
Out of my peripheral, I spy another pin about to tumble into the game. It seems brighter than the other pins. An aura surrounds it. Quick. Decision time. Quick, quick...hurry, hurry. It must be a smooth transition. It must be now. It has to be quick and easy.
But what stays? What has hope? What has matured? What retires young?
I grab the pin just as it joins the maddening rise and fall of the others. I grasp it in my palm for a split second. Flames lick up and scorch my mind. Uh oh. This one's on fire.
The ins and out of my life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Ideas are just that: ideas. But apply some critical analysis and an idea becomes a plan. Mix the plan with some thought and then the plan becomes a goal. But there is still a missing element. What will be the catalyst?
For that matter...what is a catalyst?
It is movement. It is decision. It is responsibility. It is action. It is result. It is measurement. It is success even if you fail.
Vision is key. It is important to look around your environment. Maybe even more important to take the time, be patient, and absorb. Then push, push...push. Quick, quick...quick. Hurry, hurry...hurry.
Then stop. Take a breath. Take another one. In deep and out deep. Think of what you want. Imagine the tangibles that make up the warmth and beauty of life. See it. Find it. Build it. Become it. Live it.
My manuscript is under review. I pitched it to a famous Maritime writer. He asked for some sample chapters. It shocked me at first to be honest. To be face-to-face with a stage in life and recognize it for what it is.
I sent him some chapters. He wrote back literally minutes after what it would have taken him to read the samples. He asked for the manuscript. Great voice he said. Strong stuff. I want to see if it sustains its punch and spirit. I like it he said.
The pins spin faster and faster. Each seems heavier and heavier. Each seems more real. Each is an idea that grows in merit. Each is an idea that burns with potential.
The ideas flash through my mind as I grasp each pin in between the stall from hand to hand. Business plan for the urban music artist. Promotion for the book. Brand designs for clothing and shoes. Standing in front of a growing audience and mentally preparing a speech.
Still they come.
The pin slips from my head and joins the madness. It passes through the rotation and I feel its heat. It sears my soul and then I feel the branded mark it left behind as it passes from hand to the next.
Then I realize. It is the one that has been burning all along. It is the one that is now breathing in the opportunity to become more than an idea. It burns for the chance to become real. It burns to move from dream to waking life. Soon. Oh so very soon. Just be patient. Soon my story will be laid out for the world to read. Some might judge. Some might critique. Let them. At least they will have to read it to do so. I only hope that it falls into the hands of the hopeful. The dreamer. The romantic. I only hope you will all relate to a life lived above ground with dreams of living in the clouds.
Until we meet again, my friends. Until we meet again.
"It's bitter baby and its very sweet. I'm on a roller-coaster but I'm on my feet. Take me to your river let me on your shore. I'll be coming back baby...I'll be coming back for more." - Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers
I ponder it and never stop juggling. Is it worth it? Will it sing? Does it have reason? Does it have zing? Will it last? Will it survive? When will it start? When will it thrive?
Out of my peripheral, I spy another pin about to tumble into the game. It seems brighter than the other pins. An aura surrounds it. Quick. Decision time. Quick, quick...hurry, hurry. It must be a smooth transition. It must be now. It has to be quick and easy.
But what stays? What has hope? What has matured? What retires young?
I grab the pin just as it joins the maddening rise and fall of the others. I grasp it in my palm for a split second. Flames lick up and scorch my mind. Uh oh. This one's on fire.
The ins and out of my life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Ideas are just that: ideas. But apply some critical analysis and an idea becomes a plan. Mix the plan with some thought and then the plan becomes a goal. But there is still a missing element. What will be the catalyst?
For that matter...what is a catalyst?
It is movement. It is decision. It is responsibility. It is action. It is result. It is measurement. It is success even if you fail.
Vision is key. It is important to look around your environment. Maybe even more important to take the time, be patient, and absorb. Then push, push...push. Quick, quick...quick. Hurry, hurry...hurry.
Then stop. Take a breath. Take another one. In deep and out deep. Think of what you want. Imagine the tangibles that make up the warmth and beauty of life. See it. Find it. Build it. Become it. Live it.
My manuscript is under review. I pitched it to a famous Maritime writer. He asked for some sample chapters. It shocked me at first to be honest. To be face-to-face with a stage in life and recognize it for what it is.
I sent him some chapters. He wrote back literally minutes after what it would have taken him to read the samples. He asked for the manuscript. Great voice he said. Strong stuff. I want to see if it sustains its punch and spirit. I like it he said.
The pins spin faster and faster. Each seems heavier and heavier. Each seems more real. Each is an idea that grows in merit. Each is an idea that burns with potential.
The ideas flash through my mind as I grasp each pin in between the stall from hand to hand. Business plan for the urban music artist. Promotion for the book. Brand designs for clothing and shoes. Standing in front of a growing audience and mentally preparing a speech.
Still they come.
The pin slips from my head and joins the madness. It passes through the rotation and I feel its heat. It sears my soul and then I feel the branded mark it left behind as it passes from hand to the next.
Then I realize. It is the one that has been burning all along. It is the one that is now breathing in the opportunity to become more than an idea. It burns for the chance to become real. It burns to move from dream to waking life. Soon. Oh so very soon. Just be patient. Soon my story will be laid out for the world to read. Some might judge. Some might critique. Let them. At least they will have to read it to do so. I only hope that it falls into the hands of the hopeful. The dreamer. The romantic. I only hope you will all relate to a life lived above ground with dreams of living in the clouds.
Until we meet again, my friends. Until we meet again.
"It's bitter baby and its very sweet. I'm on a roller-coaster but I'm on my feet. Take me to your river let me on your shore. I'll be coming back baby...I'll be coming back for more." - Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
A Breath in Transition
I took a break from work today and walked down to the harbourfront. I sat on some wooden stairs, stared out at the Atlantic Ocean, and thought about my life. I thought back to the days when part of my work involved cleaning up a beach. I sat on a driftwood log back then and contemplated my life while I looked out at the Pacific Ocean. Two different coasts. Two different occupations. Two different stages in life. Yet I still wonder about the same thing: where is my life headed?
Sometimes, we all need to put our life into perspective. I did today. I only know one thing for sure: I keep coming back to the same thing time and time again. Here you go and may you enjoy.
What does it mean to live? It was not that many years ago that I thought it meant drugs and booze and partying. Back then I wanted to do nothing more than obliterate the night and sleep in until way past morning. Then one morning after a crazy night of excessive drugs and booze and partying, I woke up in a hospital bed. Things changed. I scrapped everything and started over in another country. Travel was the goal. I headed off to my next stage in life.
Some years after that stage, I thought living involved travel, challenges, excitement, daring acts of rebellion, and more drugs and booze and parties. I spent my days on a chairlift with a snowboard strapped to my feet for almost half a decade. I dropped perfectly good cliffs for fun. Life was full of debauchery and hazy memories. I lost a friend. Things changed again. I decided an education was necessary in order to progress. I scrapped everything and started over on the opposite side of the country. University was the goal. I headed off to my next stage in life.
I traveled across the country and settled down on the Canadian east coast. Books, papers, team meetings, and exams were my existence. I traveled some more. I still partied some more. There were still hazy nights and foggy memories. I lost a friend again. I traveled some more again. I saw New York, Newfoundland, Vancouver, all of the Maritimes, and stood in front of the Canadian Rockies again. I even floated in the warm waters of the Caribbean while holding a beer in my hand.
Now, I am only a mere nine courses away from the completion of my degree. I was recruited for a great job while still in school. I have an amazing and most incredible woman in my life. I am blessed with the most astounding people that I proudly call my friends. Yet…am I living?
I get up in the wee hours of morning. I shower, shave, eat and run for the bus. I work, head to the gym, eat and sleep. Get up, rinse and repeat. My life is not boring. Only boring people get bored. But it is missing that zing…that jazz. The only thing that ignites my passion is this. Writing. So, I ask my self, “Self? Why are you not working harder on publishing your book? Why would you work so hard to write it and then let it gather dust?”
I do not have that answer. It is not that I am afraid of rejection or criticism. Bah, I say to that, bah. Still my book gathers dust.
So, once again, what does it mean to live? I always ask this question when I am in transition between this life stage and the upcoming life stage. I yearn to break out of my environment and at the same time I know that it is not possible. I must wait. I must be patient. Yet I must still continue to grow. I must still continue to develop. I must still continue to live.
So now I must wait patiently for my next stage in life. Soon I will have a degree in hand and that degree will offer so many possibilities and opportunities. The options are endless: teach in Japan, work on a cruise ship, stay in Nova Scotia, head back to the west coast; the list could go on. But, yet, wait; hold on just one cotton-picking minute, just whoa daddie whoa. Stop.
Living to me is writing. Writing is my life. Yet there was no mention of being a writer in that endless list of opportunities. Have I forgotten that along my quest? Have I forgotten that my pen and thoughts have brought me to this stage in life? That indeed, my writing has brought me through all stages in life – have I forgotten that? Maybe it is because I have not placed pen to paper or fingers to keyboard in quite some time. Maybe. Maybe it is time to do so again. Maybe it is time to not only chase down that dream but also to wrangle it to the ground, truss it up and show it that I mean business. Maybe.
So, I sat on the stairs, took in the sun and all its glory, and thought about all of this. I know that time waits for no man…but would it wait for me to go after my true and only dream? Just until I graduate. Just until then. Then the world is mine to do whatever I feel to do. But I still need to live and breathe in this transition stage.
Until we meet again my friends. Until we meet again.
“If I lay here…if I just lay here. Would you lie with me and just forget the world? Forget what we’re told…before we get too old.” – Snow Patrol
Sometimes, we all need to put our life into perspective. I did today. I only know one thing for sure: I keep coming back to the same thing time and time again. Here you go and may you enjoy.
What does it mean to live? It was not that many years ago that I thought it meant drugs and booze and partying. Back then I wanted to do nothing more than obliterate the night and sleep in until way past morning. Then one morning after a crazy night of excessive drugs and booze and partying, I woke up in a hospital bed. Things changed. I scrapped everything and started over in another country. Travel was the goal. I headed off to my next stage in life.
Some years after that stage, I thought living involved travel, challenges, excitement, daring acts of rebellion, and more drugs and booze and parties. I spent my days on a chairlift with a snowboard strapped to my feet for almost half a decade. I dropped perfectly good cliffs for fun. Life was full of debauchery and hazy memories. I lost a friend. Things changed again. I decided an education was necessary in order to progress. I scrapped everything and started over on the opposite side of the country. University was the goal. I headed off to my next stage in life.
I traveled across the country and settled down on the Canadian east coast. Books, papers, team meetings, and exams were my existence. I traveled some more. I still partied some more. There were still hazy nights and foggy memories. I lost a friend again. I traveled some more again. I saw New York, Newfoundland, Vancouver, all of the Maritimes, and stood in front of the Canadian Rockies again. I even floated in the warm waters of the Caribbean while holding a beer in my hand.
Now, I am only a mere nine courses away from the completion of my degree. I was recruited for a great job while still in school. I have an amazing and most incredible woman in my life. I am blessed with the most astounding people that I proudly call my friends. Yet…am I living?
I get up in the wee hours of morning. I shower, shave, eat and run for the bus. I work, head to the gym, eat and sleep. Get up, rinse and repeat. My life is not boring. Only boring people get bored. But it is missing that zing…that jazz. The only thing that ignites my passion is this. Writing. So, I ask my self, “Self? Why are you not working harder on publishing your book? Why would you work so hard to write it and then let it gather dust?”
I do not have that answer. It is not that I am afraid of rejection or criticism. Bah, I say to that, bah. Still my book gathers dust.
So, once again, what does it mean to live? I always ask this question when I am in transition between this life stage and the upcoming life stage. I yearn to break out of my environment and at the same time I know that it is not possible. I must wait. I must be patient. Yet I must still continue to grow. I must still continue to develop. I must still continue to live.
So now I must wait patiently for my next stage in life. Soon I will have a degree in hand and that degree will offer so many possibilities and opportunities. The options are endless: teach in Japan, work on a cruise ship, stay in Nova Scotia, head back to the west coast; the list could go on. But, yet, wait; hold on just one cotton-picking minute, just whoa daddie whoa. Stop.
Living to me is writing. Writing is my life. Yet there was no mention of being a writer in that endless list of opportunities. Have I forgotten that along my quest? Have I forgotten that my pen and thoughts have brought me to this stage in life? That indeed, my writing has brought me through all stages in life – have I forgotten that? Maybe it is because I have not placed pen to paper or fingers to keyboard in quite some time. Maybe. Maybe it is time to do so again. Maybe it is time to not only chase down that dream but also to wrangle it to the ground, truss it up and show it that I mean business. Maybe.
So, I sat on the stairs, took in the sun and all its glory, and thought about all of this. I know that time waits for no man…but would it wait for me to go after my true and only dream? Just until I graduate. Just until then. Then the world is mine to do whatever I feel to do. But I still need to live and breathe in this transition stage.
Until we meet again my friends. Until we meet again.
“If I lay here…if I just lay here. Would you lie with me and just forget the world? Forget what we’re told…before we get too old.” – Snow Patrol
Monday, April 02, 2007
Old City Memories
I was raised in a ghetto in the oldest city of North America.
I grew up in a small complex of Lego-constructed homes connected together in myriad groups and units of three-sometimes-four-or-five rows. It was a small and private community kept under watchful eye by its residents. We knew our own kind. It was not a place to be at any time of the day, evening or night, unless you were with someone who lived there. Unannounced strangers quickly regretted entering our comfort space.
Up the hill from that ghetto was an orphanage. I say was because it is now torn down and only an empty field remains where it once stood. This orphanage was infamous in the memory of my homeland. Evil once dwelled within its walls and preyed upon the young and innocent under the deceitful veil of the name of the Lord. This notorious orphanage even had a movie produced about it called The Boys of St. Vincent. I ran away from home one rainy night when I was eight years old and made it as far as that building: it loomed in the chill misty night air and served a haunting vision to me. The thought of living there scared me straight. Unfortunately, many decades ago, before I was even born, that dreadful abomination was reality for my uncles. They lost childhood in darkened corners and unspeakable nightmares that remain silent to this day.
Down the hill from the ghetto and the empty field is a pond that annually hosts North America's oldest sporting event. I almost drowned in that pond during that same tender age of eight years old. I can still feel the icy grasp of water dragging me out to darker depths of inevitable death. I fought against the current that day and won…unlike a childhood friend who fell in that same pond only years before I had. He had been in a wheelchair. He never had a chance to fight the current. I think what saddens me more than both these memories is the fact that my best friend actually did die on the small narrow road that borders Quidi Vidi pond. She was sitting in the backseat of a vehicle that lost control and collided with an unmoving telephone pole. That is all I will say about her for now. It would be impossible to capture her spirit in a random collection of sentences. You will know who she is when my book is published.
Behind this pond sits an age-old fishing village affectionately called the Gut by locals. It houses the oldest cottage in North America called the Mallard Cottage. This area is full of history and the smell of fish which I was never really fond of. As children we walked along the shores of Quidi Vidi and fed mallard ducks pieces of stale bread. It was a very surreal experience growing up in that element of history.
If you followed the bay surrounding the gut up, down, and around the corner, you would find the historical monument Cabot Tower situated on the historical Signal Hill. You may recall an earlier attention to the history of this area from Salt of the Earth. At the base of Signal Hill is a small pond that city resident’s refer to as Dead Man’s Pond. Rumour has it that during the days of war, dead soldiers were stuffed in barrels and thrown off the side of Signal Hill. The barrels and the bodies inside bounced and careened down the hill and landed with a splash into the pond. Apparently, the pond is bottomless, and so the barrels eventually found a way out to the harbour surrounding St. John’s. Scary to think of all the souls locked in barrels. Makes you wonder what would have happened if a soldier was only wounded and unconscious instead of actually dead. I shudder to think. Cabot Tower and Signal Hill are iconic in St. John’s because both are lit up at night and can be seen from so many directions. It is such a beautiful sight but then again, I may be a tad bit biased.
Follow the waterfront down from Signal Hill until you go far, up, and beyond a long winding hill that swoops past a small anachronous town known as Shea Heights. Shea Heights is a smattering of small houses with junked cars and old kitchen sinks littering the front yard. But, whatever you do, just don’t stop to take pictures. As tough as my ghetto was, anyone from Shea Heights was always tougher. They don’t make people of that mentality anymore. Tough, rugged, ocean people. My kind of people.
Up the road from Shea Heights is the area known as Cape Spear and the most North Easterly point in North America. It is the spot where this continent first sees the sunset rise over the Atlantic Ocean and such a beautiful scene it is. It is littered with old army bunkers and remnants from the war years gone past.
I returned home to St. John’s two summers ago for the first time in over 12 years. I stood on a cliff bluff in Cape Spear as the rain pounded down all around me. It was surreal. The day was chill and foggy as most days can be in Newfoundland. But I didn’t care. I was home again. I could breathe the fresh air with certainty that it flew on the wings of the salt of the earth. But I also knew something else with certainty: I had outgrown my homeland. I was a stranger in the town I was born and raised. I may never be able to live there again…and that saddens me more than anything else in this world. To be from a place that is so welcoming but yet I don’t feel welcomed. I sit back and think about it now, and I wonder if St. John’s had outgrown me; or if I had outgrown St. John’s.
St. John’s is full of nooks and crannies and ghosts that walk the city streets. It is full of culture to tantalize the eye and a community of old generous souls. For those who are from Newfoundland, I say it will always be there waiting for your return. For those who have visited it will always be a drunken memory and an unforgettable hangover. For those who have never been…well, what the heck are you waiting for? Get out there m’ son and see the oldest rock in North America. Meet strangers that become best friends. Drink, eat, and be merry. Then drink again. Enjoy the fruit of my people as they enjoy your company. When you get there…tell them you were sent by one of their own.
Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
“You’ll have to excuse me...I’m not at my best;
I’ve been gone for a month...I’ve been drunk since I left;
And these so-called vacations will soon be my death;
I’m so sick from the drink...I need home for a rest;
Take me home” – Spirit of the West
I grew up in a small complex of Lego-constructed homes connected together in myriad groups and units of three-sometimes-four-or-five rows. It was a small and private community kept under watchful eye by its residents. We knew our own kind. It was not a place to be at any time of the day, evening or night, unless you were with someone who lived there. Unannounced strangers quickly regretted entering our comfort space.
Up the hill from that ghetto was an orphanage. I say was because it is now torn down and only an empty field remains where it once stood. This orphanage was infamous in the memory of my homeland. Evil once dwelled within its walls and preyed upon the young and innocent under the deceitful veil of the name of the Lord. This notorious orphanage even had a movie produced about it called The Boys of St. Vincent. I ran away from home one rainy night when I was eight years old and made it as far as that building: it loomed in the chill misty night air and served a haunting vision to me. The thought of living there scared me straight. Unfortunately, many decades ago, before I was even born, that dreadful abomination was reality for my uncles. They lost childhood in darkened corners and unspeakable nightmares that remain silent to this day.
Down the hill from the ghetto and the empty field is a pond that annually hosts North America's oldest sporting event. I almost drowned in that pond during that same tender age of eight years old. I can still feel the icy grasp of water dragging me out to darker depths of inevitable death. I fought against the current that day and won…unlike a childhood friend who fell in that same pond only years before I had. He had been in a wheelchair. He never had a chance to fight the current. I think what saddens me more than both these memories is the fact that my best friend actually did die on the small narrow road that borders Quidi Vidi pond. She was sitting in the backseat of a vehicle that lost control and collided with an unmoving telephone pole. That is all I will say about her for now. It would be impossible to capture her spirit in a random collection of sentences. You will know who she is when my book is published.
Behind this pond sits an age-old fishing village affectionately called the Gut by locals. It houses the oldest cottage in North America called the Mallard Cottage. This area is full of history and the smell of fish which I was never really fond of. As children we walked along the shores of Quidi Vidi and fed mallard ducks pieces of stale bread. It was a very surreal experience growing up in that element of history.
If you followed the bay surrounding the gut up, down, and around the corner, you would find the historical monument Cabot Tower situated on the historical Signal Hill. You may recall an earlier attention to the history of this area from Salt of the Earth. At the base of Signal Hill is a small pond that city resident’s refer to as Dead Man’s Pond. Rumour has it that during the days of war, dead soldiers were stuffed in barrels and thrown off the side of Signal Hill. The barrels and the bodies inside bounced and careened down the hill and landed with a splash into the pond. Apparently, the pond is bottomless, and so the barrels eventually found a way out to the harbour surrounding St. John’s. Scary to think of all the souls locked in barrels. Makes you wonder what would have happened if a soldier was only wounded and unconscious instead of actually dead. I shudder to think. Cabot Tower and Signal Hill are iconic in St. John’s because both are lit up at night and can be seen from so many directions. It is such a beautiful sight but then again, I may be a tad bit biased.
Follow the waterfront down from Signal Hill until you go far, up, and beyond a long winding hill that swoops past a small anachronous town known as Shea Heights. Shea Heights is a smattering of small houses with junked cars and old kitchen sinks littering the front yard. But, whatever you do, just don’t stop to take pictures. As tough as my ghetto was, anyone from Shea Heights was always tougher. They don’t make people of that mentality anymore. Tough, rugged, ocean people. My kind of people.
Up the road from Shea Heights is the area known as Cape Spear and the most North Easterly point in North America. It is the spot where this continent first sees the sunset rise over the Atlantic Ocean and such a beautiful scene it is. It is littered with old army bunkers and remnants from the war years gone past.
I returned home to St. John’s two summers ago for the first time in over 12 years. I stood on a cliff bluff in Cape Spear as the rain pounded down all around me. It was surreal. The day was chill and foggy as most days can be in Newfoundland. But I didn’t care. I was home again. I could breathe the fresh air with certainty that it flew on the wings of the salt of the earth. But I also knew something else with certainty: I had outgrown my homeland. I was a stranger in the town I was born and raised. I may never be able to live there again…and that saddens me more than anything else in this world. To be from a place that is so welcoming but yet I don’t feel welcomed. I sit back and think about it now, and I wonder if St. John’s had outgrown me; or if I had outgrown St. John’s.
St. John’s is full of nooks and crannies and ghosts that walk the city streets. It is full of culture to tantalize the eye and a community of old generous souls. For those who are from Newfoundland, I say it will always be there waiting for your return. For those who have visited it will always be a drunken memory and an unforgettable hangover. For those who have never been…well, what the heck are you waiting for? Get out there m’ son and see the oldest rock in North America. Meet strangers that become best friends. Drink, eat, and be merry. Then drink again. Enjoy the fruit of my people as they enjoy your company. When you get there…tell them you were sent by one of their own.
Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
“You’ll have to excuse me...I’m not at my best;
I’ve been gone for a month...I’ve been drunk since I left;
And these so-called vacations will soon be my death;
I’m so sick from the drink...I need home for a rest;
Take me home” – Spirit of the West
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Personal Survival Guide
What makes a happy life? Is it friends and family, money and esteem, or is it excitement and travel? Is it love? What is the missing ingredient to making a day worth exploring and a life worth living?
In my opinion, a happy life is linear with an understanding of self. It is linear with questioning personal standards and coding life actions by upholding those standards. Do you take the time to reflect on your words before a thought becomes an action? Do you take the time to reflect on your direction and exemplify your goals toward the higher purpose of being a more caring and compassionate person? Would you not agree that our eventual and higher purpose is to be happy: to live a good and just life?
The following are my thoughts on what it means to be happy and to live a virtuous life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Day in and night out, I consistently state an internal motto to cope with situations in order to bypass unexpected scenarios. When frustration rears its ugly head and nips at my mental, it can be so easy to nip back and loose a verbal assault of anger and incipient insults. This internal reaction occurs for a second or two when I am confronted by ugly frustrations - in the past, I would automatically sputter a regrettable reply. Nowadays, I choose to breathe deep internally and release an external reflection opposed to a reactive action.
I have a secret to share with everyone but I will only promise to tell it if you promise not to keep it a secret. Most people are afraid to tell secrets because secrets can be a formula for success over an obstacle to personal development and knowledge. But withholding valuable and simplistic wisdom does not enable anyone to succeed in this life. However, before I devolve my secret it is important to understand what I hold priceless in life.
Ethics: yes, ethics. Ethics are the code of non-contradictory moral principles that I use to judge my decisions and actions. For example, I believe dishonesty is wrong and therefore will not lie even if it means saving my own ass. To progress that thought a little further: I have refined my virtues as a step above my ethical principles because virtues are moral practices that must be reflected upon daily. Virtues are the credo in life that enable me to make ethical decisions because my virtues have trained my mental capacities to already know what to do before I have to do. It essentially comes down to who judges me after this life has expired and not who judges me during my time on this mortal plane.
So, with that thought in mind, here's my secret: I have come to see over the past six years of my life that it is critical to apply patience in your life. The only end result anger has ever supplied is to hurt another human either physically or mentally - and that is not the end result to which we need aspire. Human beings have an unlimited capacity for compassion and love for other fellow human beings - we all know what it means to feel pure joy and love flood our souls. We also know what it means to feel pain or suffering - we know it is unnecessary as well. Yet why does it come down to us having to choose between pain and love? Why is it that we incessantly choose to pile the former upon others instead of the latter? Why is pain so readily available in our lives when happiness is so hard to come upon?
I encourage you to reflect on your thoughts before those thoughts become an action. I encourage you to value patience as a virtue because it will allow you to bypass previously coded reactions. Patience enables us to recognize the triggers that transform an individual from a sane person into a sputtering-frothy-spittle-producing-ball-of-rage. Patience offers the ability to not only recognize the triggers that set us off but specifically recognize who we are after the frustration has passed - to see that we held our mental stability while everyone else lost theirs. Patience offers us the opportunity to gain composure not to lose composure.
Patience is not easy to come by. It takes practice and training of your mental to achieve a moment of clarity in the heat of battle. Patience means biting your tongue instead of lashing out. Patience means loving your enemy and finding their good points versus their bad. Tough, I know, and it is one aspect of patience that I am learning every single day. It can be so easy to forget who you are and what you want; and it can be so hard to hold your voice and listen to reason. It is not simple; in no way, shape, or form is it simple. It is not meant to be. But you must at least attempt before you even give up on an idea.
Virtues such as patience help us grow and develop into a higher form of being - a form of being higher than surface level frustrations; higher than surface level insignificances. Personally, through the practice of patience on a consistent day in and night out basis, I have come to see that my character has evolved oh so quickly. Patience allows me to see my past grievances for what they are: simple mistakes that I made before and now I do my best to clear my thoughts before those mistakes happen again.
We learn from mistakes. We learn from our indiscretions. We learn from other people. Through it all we learn how to segue knowledge into wisdom. It is through wisdom that we evolve. Think about it. That is all I can ask. Tell me if you agree. Tell me if you disagree. Tell me a time when patience saved you from making a horrible mistake or loosing an unnecessary scathing response. Even better: tell me sometime down the road that frustration was nipping at you and instead of nipping back, well; tell me you remembered my words. Tell me that those words made a world of distance and in that one second of reflection - tell me you felt an evolution taking place. Tell me in that one second that you felt happiness enter your soul. Tell me it made you smile. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"The strongest of all warriors are these two - Time and Patience." - Leo Tolstoy
In my opinion, a happy life is linear with an understanding of self. It is linear with questioning personal standards and coding life actions by upholding those standards. Do you take the time to reflect on your words before a thought becomes an action? Do you take the time to reflect on your direction and exemplify your goals toward the higher purpose of being a more caring and compassionate person? Would you not agree that our eventual and higher purpose is to be happy: to live a good and just life?
The following are my thoughts on what it means to be happy and to live a virtuous life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Day in and night out, I consistently state an internal motto to cope with situations in order to bypass unexpected scenarios. When frustration rears its ugly head and nips at my mental, it can be so easy to nip back and loose a verbal assault of anger and incipient insults. This internal reaction occurs for a second or two when I am confronted by ugly frustrations - in the past, I would automatically sputter a regrettable reply. Nowadays, I choose to breathe deep internally and release an external reflection opposed to a reactive action.
I have a secret to share with everyone but I will only promise to tell it if you promise not to keep it a secret. Most people are afraid to tell secrets because secrets can be a formula for success over an obstacle to personal development and knowledge. But withholding valuable and simplistic wisdom does not enable anyone to succeed in this life. However, before I devolve my secret it is important to understand what I hold priceless in life.
Ethics: yes, ethics. Ethics are the code of non-contradictory moral principles that I use to judge my decisions and actions. For example, I believe dishonesty is wrong and therefore will not lie even if it means saving my own ass. To progress that thought a little further: I have refined my virtues as a step above my ethical principles because virtues are moral practices that must be reflected upon daily. Virtues are the credo in life that enable me to make ethical decisions because my virtues have trained my mental capacities to already know what to do before I have to do. It essentially comes down to who judges me after this life has expired and not who judges me during my time on this mortal plane.
So, with that thought in mind, here's my secret: I have come to see over the past six years of my life that it is critical to apply patience in your life. The only end result anger has ever supplied is to hurt another human either physically or mentally - and that is not the end result to which we need aspire. Human beings have an unlimited capacity for compassion and love for other fellow human beings - we all know what it means to feel pure joy and love flood our souls. We also know what it means to feel pain or suffering - we know it is unnecessary as well. Yet why does it come down to us having to choose between pain and love? Why is it that we incessantly choose to pile the former upon others instead of the latter? Why is pain so readily available in our lives when happiness is so hard to come upon?
I encourage you to reflect on your thoughts before those thoughts become an action. I encourage you to value patience as a virtue because it will allow you to bypass previously coded reactions. Patience enables us to recognize the triggers that transform an individual from a sane person into a sputtering-frothy-spittle-producing-ball-of-rage. Patience offers the ability to not only recognize the triggers that set us off but specifically recognize who we are after the frustration has passed - to see that we held our mental stability while everyone else lost theirs. Patience offers us the opportunity to gain composure not to lose composure.
Patience is not easy to come by. It takes practice and training of your mental to achieve a moment of clarity in the heat of battle. Patience means biting your tongue instead of lashing out. Patience means loving your enemy and finding their good points versus their bad. Tough, I know, and it is one aspect of patience that I am learning every single day. It can be so easy to forget who you are and what you want; and it can be so hard to hold your voice and listen to reason. It is not simple; in no way, shape, or form is it simple. It is not meant to be. But you must at least attempt before you even give up on an idea.
Virtues such as patience help us grow and develop into a higher form of being - a form of being higher than surface level frustrations; higher than surface level insignificances. Personally, through the practice of patience on a consistent day in and night out basis, I have come to see that my character has evolved oh so quickly. Patience allows me to see my past grievances for what they are: simple mistakes that I made before and now I do my best to clear my thoughts before those mistakes happen again.
We learn from mistakes. We learn from our indiscretions. We learn from other people. Through it all we learn how to segue knowledge into wisdom. It is through wisdom that we evolve. Think about it. That is all I can ask. Tell me if you agree. Tell me if you disagree. Tell me a time when patience saved you from making a horrible mistake or loosing an unnecessary scathing response. Even better: tell me sometime down the road that frustration was nipping at you and instead of nipping back, well; tell me you remembered my words. Tell me that those words made a world of distance and in that one second of reflection - tell me you felt an evolution taking place. Tell me in that one second that you felt happiness enter your soul. Tell me it made you smile. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"The strongest of all warriors are these two - Time and Patience." - Leo Tolstoy
Friday, September 22, 2006
Thankful Thoughts
I walked home in a wet and rainy Alberta autumn last night and thought about my life. I revisited the times when a seemingly impenetrable wall was broken down only to be replaced by an even bigger obstacle. I reflected on days when I only ate Boost and Jell-o in order to keep my body alive and fed with basic nutrients. The rains fell harder and the winds intensified.
Then I smiled.
You see, nothing can dampen my spirit: not the elements, no matter how torturous they may seem nor the haunted memories of what was seemingly eons ago. I have seen the darkest of eves, I have faced the darkest of demons, and I have journeyed into the darkest canyons of soul.
It comes down to my love of life. It comes down to gathering minutes and seconds from my days and weeks. It comes down to filtering through those times and finding small trinkets of happiness and gratitude. It comes down to thankful thoughts that I am here to experience everyday like it is my first footstep on earth.
Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I give thanks for the woman I call Mother. She holds me when my head is heavy and my neck is oh so tired from carrying the weight on my shoulders. She faces her fears and believes it is all for a reason – that this too will eventually pass. She is my strength. She is a reason for becoming something more than I ever thought possible. For her I am thankful.
I give thanks for the innocence of children. How they can find the purity in a soft breeze or the mischief in a falling leaf. They giggle and dance amongst the seconds of youth. They remind me there is no need to hurry because there will always be enough time. For them I am thankful.
I give thanks for my friends that call and write to say they love me or to harass because of my occasional lapses in conversation. They bring me so much strength and power with their words and yet some tell me they need to hear my thoughts of peace, passion, and progress. They say how my words permit them to fade away into personal reflection on individuality and life direction. For them I am thankful.
I give thanks for my travels to mountains of grandeur with peaks of untouchable heights. I marvel at the clouds that dip in homage to the earthly magnificence of beauty and grace. I leave my footprint on the world in places I have seen before and envision leaving more footprints on white sandy beaches with crystal blue waves. For this I am thankful.
I give thanks for nights spent before a roaring bonfire with companions who share stories of similar mirth and wonder. I remember chords of music drifting softly into the nighttime air and mingling with a collection of frozen breath and warm dreams. For this I am thankful.
I give thanks for her. I never knew what love was meant to feel like or how it would taste on my lips. I never knew it would come when least expected or from an island so far away yet oh so close. She brings such happiness and she brings such tidings of faith that we will make it the life we always desired. Her smile illuminates the lonely corners of a remembered nightmare and touches the young boy who was left behind in the dark. Together our laughter becomes music and I believe even the angels stop to listen to our harmony and bask in our light. For her I am thankful.
I give thanks for life. For basic simplicities such as falling asleep and greeting my dreams in the night. Or waking in the morning and giving thanks for another day and another chance. For breathing in one more day and for the opportunity to breath in so many more. For this I am thankful.
How have you given thanks today? For the stranger who held the door with a strong hand and a kind smile? For the loved one who held you close and kissed you goodbye? Have you given thanks for life? Please take some time, no matter where you are no matter what you may be doing, just take a few seconds to collect a short list of thanks. Take the time to be the reason why someone else gives thanks one day. I give thanks for you all. Continue on and follow the road to happiness. In the end it will all lead to salvation. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
“If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies in yourself.” – Minquass Indian Proverb
Then I smiled.
You see, nothing can dampen my spirit: not the elements, no matter how torturous they may seem nor the haunted memories of what was seemingly eons ago. I have seen the darkest of eves, I have faced the darkest of demons, and I have journeyed into the darkest canyons of soul.
It comes down to my love of life. It comes down to gathering minutes and seconds from my days and weeks. It comes down to filtering through those times and finding small trinkets of happiness and gratitude. It comes down to thankful thoughts that I am here to experience everyday like it is my first footstep on earth.
Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I give thanks for the woman I call Mother. She holds me when my head is heavy and my neck is oh so tired from carrying the weight on my shoulders. She faces her fears and believes it is all for a reason – that this too will eventually pass. She is my strength. She is a reason for becoming something more than I ever thought possible. For her I am thankful.
I give thanks for the innocence of children. How they can find the purity in a soft breeze or the mischief in a falling leaf. They giggle and dance amongst the seconds of youth. They remind me there is no need to hurry because there will always be enough time. For them I am thankful.
I give thanks for my friends that call and write to say they love me or to harass because of my occasional lapses in conversation. They bring me so much strength and power with their words and yet some tell me they need to hear my thoughts of peace, passion, and progress. They say how my words permit them to fade away into personal reflection on individuality and life direction. For them I am thankful.
I give thanks for my travels to mountains of grandeur with peaks of untouchable heights. I marvel at the clouds that dip in homage to the earthly magnificence of beauty and grace. I leave my footprint on the world in places I have seen before and envision leaving more footprints on white sandy beaches with crystal blue waves. For this I am thankful.
I give thanks for nights spent before a roaring bonfire with companions who share stories of similar mirth and wonder. I remember chords of music drifting softly into the nighttime air and mingling with a collection of frozen breath and warm dreams. For this I am thankful.
I give thanks for her. I never knew what love was meant to feel like or how it would taste on my lips. I never knew it would come when least expected or from an island so far away yet oh so close. She brings such happiness and she brings such tidings of faith that we will make it the life we always desired. Her smile illuminates the lonely corners of a remembered nightmare and touches the young boy who was left behind in the dark. Together our laughter becomes music and I believe even the angels stop to listen to our harmony and bask in our light. For her I am thankful.
I give thanks for life. For basic simplicities such as falling asleep and greeting my dreams in the night. Or waking in the morning and giving thanks for another day and another chance. For breathing in one more day and for the opportunity to breath in so many more. For this I am thankful.
How have you given thanks today? For the stranger who held the door with a strong hand and a kind smile? For the loved one who held you close and kissed you goodbye? Have you given thanks for life? Please take some time, no matter where you are no matter what you may be doing, just take a few seconds to collect a short list of thanks. Take the time to be the reason why someone else gives thanks one day. I give thanks for you all. Continue on and follow the road to happiness. In the end it will all lead to salvation. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
“If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies in yourself.” – Minquass Indian Proverb
Friday, June 23, 2006
Take Your Hands Off Me
"This is private property", said the man and added, "You have no right to be here".
I nodded my head, walked away, and wondered why someone would want to have that much solitude: away from the world and away from prying eyes. I thought about the heartache he must have endured during his years that caused him to isolate him self apart from others.
The tide started to come in and the onrushing ocean crashed over my toes. I stood on a waterlogged beach in front of a tiny island on the most northern tip of Canada. Across the water lay the Pacific Rim, and many, many miles after that: Japan. Sitting of top of this island was a house miles away from the nearby forest, much less any nearby humans. I remember thinking that day about our privacy and the people we allow in on that privacy...and the reasons we keep others away.
Here you go, and may you enjoy.
When I stand alone from you, it only means I am standing apart. I am only seen as someone on the outside of your world. It is up to the individual to decide if a person is allowed entry into their thoughts. Until that moment occurs, well; we stand apart from others that are not like our selves.
Not like our selves to the naked eye that is.
Because when I am alone with you, it is easy to see that I actually love the art of conversation: you talk, I talk, we share, we laugh. It is in my nature to laugh and when I am not able, it seems like I am on the outside looking in. Looking in on a world I do not feel apart of. I step away and wonder if it will really be true one day. If it really is possible to have a friendship of significant proportions...one that will pass through a lifetime.
Or if it is true that all friendships are just to pass the time with.
For, you see, it is necessary to devolve who we are in order to create a bond. It is basic requirement for future interactions that you tell me your dreams and your aspirations. It is so asked because I would love to be there when your life unfolds: when it all comes rushing at you as if you were standing underneath a cascading waterfall...on a hot tropical beach in the middle of anywhere you want to be.
This is friendship to me: it truly is. To trust another so much that you not only tell them your dreams, but that you see them being an important aspect of those same dreams. Alone I have the same dreams and apart I still keep them true. I will tell you all that I long to travel, that I long to smell new fragances rising on the summer wind, and I long to feel the same hand in mine as we both experience the same rush.
I long for a life less ordinary. I know it exists because I have tasted it: I have felt it brush across my face enticing me to journey. The North wind it blows and calls for me to come run once more and take a tumble or two and rise again. It is how we learn and understand that we must trust. If you trust in that the Universe will take care of you, well; then you can trust in the process of life to lead you in the right direction. Together is the key, and not alone or apart; together we can do anything...yet alone with you I can do so much more.
Alone I am strong.
Apart I am mystery.
Alone I am who I want to be.
Apart I am someone to observe.
It is the in-between gap that I wonder of at times. How I can bridge the distance to show you intelligence, to show you humour, to show you insight. Insight to my mind, insight to my questions, insight to my soul. For you see: alone with her I am loved. Alone with her I am inspired. Alone with her I see a life so strong and yet it is only in the making. But apart from her I am missed. Apart from her I long to see her smile. Apart from her I can only envision the future we both see happening.
In the end it is all about trust and not about bricking your self up one at a time. Slowly, until the world is sealed away, and you find your self alone and apart. Do not place your self on a island because that is to shut away heart; that is to shut away life. I only ask this because it comes from personal experience of doing the same thing. From a time that it seemed easier to shut down my heart and ignore the pleading of my soul: to give in to the darkness and believe there truly is no light.
But there is. There is light for us one and all. There is a love so pure that we can all taste it and absorb its shared warmth. We all have our trials and tribulations, and Lord knows we all want to just quit at times. It would be easier than facing what we know may never go away. But facing your fears is the only way to accept them. To accept your fears is the only way to acknowledge them. To acknowledge your fears is the only way to admit they are apart of you...that they exist no matter if you are alone or apart.
Life continues on. Won't you continue on with it? It is the only true way to leave a legacy that you really were here. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"I dream of high clouds flushed with light of daybreak...I'm gonna dive into water so cold it makes your bones ache." - David Gray
I nodded my head, walked away, and wondered why someone would want to have that much solitude: away from the world and away from prying eyes. I thought about the heartache he must have endured during his years that caused him to isolate him self apart from others.
The tide started to come in and the onrushing ocean crashed over my toes. I stood on a waterlogged beach in front of a tiny island on the most northern tip of Canada. Across the water lay the Pacific Rim, and many, many miles after that: Japan. Sitting of top of this island was a house miles away from the nearby forest, much less any nearby humans. I remember thinking that day about our privacy and the people we allow in on that privacy...and the reasons we keep others away.
Here you go, and may you enjoy.
When I stand alone from you, it only means I am standing apart. I am only seen as someone on the outside of your world. It is up to the individual to decide if a person is allowed entry into their thoughts. Until that moment occurs, well; we stand apart from others that are not like our selves.
Not like our selves to the naked eye that is.
Because when I am alone with you, it is easy to see that I actually love the art of conversation: you talk, I talk, we share, we laugh. It is in my nature to laugh and when I am not able, it seems like I am on the outside looking in. Looking in on a world I do not feel apart of. I step away and wonder if it will really be true one day. If it really is possible to have a friendship of significant proportions...one that will pass through a lifetime.
Or if it is true that all friendships are just to pass the time with.
For, you see, it is necessary to devolve who we are in order to create a bond. It is basic requirement for future interactions that you tell me your dreams and your aspirations. It is so asked because I would love to be there when your life unfolds: when it all comes rushing at you as if you were standing underneath a cascading waterfall...on a hot tropical beach in the middle of anywhere you want to be.
This is friendship to me: it truly is. To trust another so much that you not only tell them your dreams, but that you see them being an important aspect of those same dreams. Alone I have the same dreams and apart I still keep them true. I will tell you all that I long to travel, that I long to smell new fragances rising on the summer wind, and I long to feel the same hand in mine as we both experience the same rush.
I long for a life less ordinary. I know it exists because I have tasted it: I have felt it brush across my face enticing me to journey. The North wind it blows and calls for me to come run once more and take a tumble or two and rise again. It is how we learn and understand that we must trust. If you trust in that the Universe will take care of you, well; then you can trust in the process of life to lead you in the right direction. Together is the key, and not alone or apart; together we can do anything...yet alone with you I can do so much more.
Alone I am strong.
Apart I am mystery.
Alone I am who I want to be.
Apart I am someone to observe.
It is the in-between gap that I wonder of at times. How I can bridge the distance to show you intelligence, to show you humour, to show you insight. Insight to my mind, insight to my questions, insight to my soul. For you see: alone with her I am loved. Alone with her I am inspired. Alone with her I see a life so strong and yet it is only in the making. But apart from her I am missed. Apart from her I long to see her smile. Apart from her I can only envision the future we both see happening.
In the end it is all about trust and not about bricking your self up one at a time. Slowly, until the world is sealed away, and you find your self alone and apart. Do not place your self on a island because that is to shut away heart; that is to shut away life. I only ask this because it comes from personal experience of doing the same thing. From a time that it seemed easier to shut down my heart and ignore the pleading of my soul: to give in to the darkness and believe there truly is no light.
But there is. There is light for us one and all. There is a love so pure that we can all taste it and absorb its shared warmth. We all have our trials and tribulations, and Lord knows we all want to just quit at times. It would be easier than facing what we know may never go away. But facing your fears is the only way to accept them. To accept your fears is the only way to acknowledge them. To acknowledge your fears is the only way to admit they are apart of you...that they exist no matter if you are alone or apart.
Life continues on. Won't you continue on with it? It is the only true way to leave a legacy that you really were here. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"I dream of high clouds flushed with light of daybreak...I'm gonna dive into water so cold it makes your bones ache." - David Gray
Friday, May 19, 2006
Stealth Missions
A strange thought hit me tonight. When these thoughts come into my mind, I have a tendency to reflect on my past. Reflecting on my past usually opens a box of stories and all these memories spill out.
I have lived so many lives. I have seen so many things. I have formed so many memories. The following is one of them. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I dropped into the chute and surveyed my surroundings. The chute was dangerously steep and bordered by high, rocky cliffs. I shifted my weight over my snowboard and descended lower into the valley. The snow underneath me shifted and swayed like a soft summer wave. It was so lush and so soft.
It was so iniquitously deep.
I eased the pressure off my back foot and turned straight for the cliff drop a mere 10 feet from the nose of my board. I had been in this position so many times before, and yet each time I wondered why I kept doing it. I had many concussions, many separated bones, many an oft fractured tailbone...and yet.
It is the freedom of it all. It is the flow of consciousness into a space where all that matters is the rush and the survival.
My speed picked up and I could feel the snow catch my board and throw up little waves of white here; there; and everywhere.
I remember thinking about another time when I was high up on a launching platform of a different sort. I listened to my heavy breathing in my ears, felt my heart thump, thump, thump blood as it raced into my veins and became liquid adrenaline.
Only a few feet now. I smile in anticipation.
Flash goes the photograph in my head as I regress back to that night as my whole world ran before me; all out of control. I taste the fear on my lips from the terror of what I was about to do. I think my heart stopped its mad crazy, thump, thump, thumping.
I feel the rush of insanity flail my bones with glee and vicious laughter.
The chute bottom ends out into a freefall into nothing. I spring off the lip of snow like a cheetah springing off a boulder unto its fresh prey. My breath freezes in my throat and for that brief utter split of time there is nothing but me; my soul; and my freedom.
I flash back in that stolen fraction of time and remember nothing from another moment of flight. I cringe for something I do not recall a memory of. I cringe for the crunch I never actually felt but still hold in the basin of my past.
Then, suddenly, the ground rushed up at me and I explode with a pop of snow and an explosion of a white heaven. I surfed the deep pockets of powder and the memory from that night faded away into a hushed whisper and a promise that it would always return.
I sit here and realize that I am almost done my last round of personal edits. That tomorrow morning I will be printing off my first manuscript and couriering it to my editor. I think of all the stories it contains; all the emotions; all the personal hardships.
I laugh and wonder if it will be read.
It is almost ready now; one more step in so many more to come. I reflect on all the stories that have come; ponder the ones that have yet to make an appearance. But I know there is so much time.
My quest for peace is what pushes me on. To be more; to become more; to see more. To find satisfaction of seeing a beautiful sunset, to see a loved one smiling at me, to hold her hand as she holds mine. Peace, my friends, peace. It was what held my body together not so many years ago; it was what held my life together in the shambles of insanity. It held broken bones together and refused to allow me to break again.
Ever since I have started this website, there have been numerous references to a book, to a fraction of images that have never been truly explained. But it will all be explained in time and my story will be there for all to read. We desire the reality of flesh and blood; we desire it to transport us into our memories and allow permission to live through another's eyes. To dream with another.
Dreams are for the making for us one and all. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"I've had a chance to be insane, asylum from the falling rain...I've had a chance to break."
- Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers
I have lived so many lives. I have seen so many things. I have formed so many memories. The following is one of them. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I dropped into the chute and surveyed my surroundings. The chute was dangerously steep and bordered by high, rocky cliffs. I shifted my weight over my snowboard and descended lower into the valley. The snow underneath me shifted and swayed like a soft summer wave. It was so lush and so soft.
It was so iniquitously deep.
I eased the pressure off my back foot and turned straight for the cliff drop a mere 10 feet from the nose of my board. I had been in this position so many times before, and yet each time I wondered why I kept doing it. I had many concussions, many separated bones, many an oft fractured tailbone...and yet.
It is the freedom of it all. It is the flow of consciousness into a space where all that matters is the rush and the survival.
My speed picked up and I could feel the snow catch my board and throw up little waves of white here; there; and everywhere.
I remember thinking about another time when I was high up on a launching platform of a different sort. I listened to my heavy breathing in my ears, felt my heart thump, thump, thump blood as it raced into my veins and became liquid adrenaline.
Only a few feet now. I smile in anticipation.
Flash goes the photograph in my head as I regress back to that night as my whole world ran before me; all out of control. I taste the fear on my lips from the terror of what I was about to do. I think my heart stopped its mad crazy, thump, thump, thumping.
I feel the rush of insanity flail my bones with glee and vicious laughter.
The chute bottom ends out into a freefall into nothing. I spring off the lip of snow like a cheetah springing off a boulder unto its fresh prey. My breath freezes in my throat and for that brief utter split of time there is nothing but me; my soul; and my freedom.
I flash back in that stolen fraction of time and remember nothing from another moment of flight. I cringe for something I do not recall a memory of. I cringe for the crunch I never actually felt but still hold in the basin of my past.
Then, suddenly, the ground rushed up at me and I explode with a pop of snow and an explosion of a white heaven. I surfed the deep pockets of powder and the memory from that night faded away into a hushed whisper and a promise that it would always return.
I sit here and realize that I am almost done my last round of personal edits. That tomorrow morning I will be printing off my first manuscript and couriering it to my editor. I think of all the stories it contains; all the emotions; all the personal hardships.
I laugh and wonder if it will be read.
It is almost ready now; one more step in so many more to come. I reflect on all the stories that have come; ponder the ones that have yet to make an appearance. But I know there is so much time.
My quest for peace is what pushes me on. To be more; to become more; to see more. To find satisfaction of seeing a beautiful sunset, to see a loved one smiling at me, to hold her hand as she holds mine. Peace, my friends, peace. It was what held my body together not so many years ago; it was what held my life together in the shambles of insanity. It held broken bones together and refused to allow me to break again.
Ever since I have started this website, there have been numerous references to a book, to a fraction of images that have never been truly explained. But it will all be explained in time and my story will be there for all to read. We desire the reality of flesh and blood; we desire it to transport us into our memories and allow permission to live through another's eyes. To dream with another.
Dreams are for the making for us one and all. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"I've had a chance to be insane, asylum from the falling rain...I've had a chance to break."
- Anthony Keidis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Nothing Wasted
I heard the pop of shattering glass seconds before I saw her: an older lady in her motorized wheelchair, sitting in shock in front of a broken pane of glass on an entry door into the mall. I took in the scene while briefly watching all the people walking by making comments and snide remarks.
Yet not one of them stopped to assist her.
I did. Plus one other lady who walked with the aid of a cane. Together as one, we offered our help. The rest is what happened from there. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
We asked her if she was okay: if she was cut or if she had caused any harm to her body. Both of us brushed the glass of her feet and legs and picked out shards from her small little front basket on the chair.
"I was doing so well," she said.
I looked at her, jarred by the sound of her voice, and the depth of emotion it held.
Her hands gripped the handlebars of the steering column and I watched as they shook uncontrollably...and then I realized she did not have complete control of her bodily actions. I realized that she ran into the window because her reaction time was dulled; not by age but by an affliction I may never know.
My heart went out to her and tears welled up in my eyes. The other Good Samaritan asked once more if she was okay and I picked up on her slight yet thick familiar accent. "What part of Newfoundland are you from?" I asked her.
"St. John's", she said.
I laughed. "So am I. It would make sense that the only people who came to her aid would be Newfoundlanders." We both laughed and the lady smiled at us.
As security guards showed up to take care of the broken glass, I walked away and started to think of the irony of it all. There were only three of us and yet all three were, at some point, in the same similar position at one time on their life.
Let me explain. You had the older lady in the motorized wheelchair, the lady with the cane, and me: once upon a time I was encased in a body cast made of fibreglass and plaster. I was defenseless; I had no control; I could only depend on the kindness of strangers; I could only depend on my Mother...at one time in my past I was as helpless as a newborn baby at the tender age of twenty six years old.
Three individuals who were all in three stages at one time in their life. I thought about life and what I was being told; why I had walked by at that exact same instant; what message was being shown that I was not seeing...all of these and more rushed through my head.
I came to the conclusion that I must do something more; that I must not waste any more time on trivial worries and that I must start it now...but start what? Start where? Do I drop out of school and enter a law program in order to fight for the rights of the underprivileged? Do I start up a campaign and raise funds for those who have nothing to eat or no place to sleep or who are unable to pay rising medical bills?
Then, in the midst of all my mental clamour and distress, my Island girl talked to me and pulled my thoughts from my head. She told me that I will do what is needed; that I will make it right one day; but that today was not that day. Write, she said, just write and do what you are meant to do. We both know you were saved from death in order to become something more; we both know you are protected. For that matter, she said, we are all protected but it is only that we all do not realize it.
"Life is happening all around us", she said. "You only hear of a person being kidnapped in Trinidad, but do you hear of the collective Islanders saying prayers for their safe return? Do you hear of the novena's and countless prayers being repeated again and again to ask for God's help?"
"No", she said, "No; because you only hear of the next kidnapping. You only hear of the evil more than the good. It is the evil that sells. But good will always prevail. There is more good than there is evil and the sure numbers of that alone predicate success. Life will prevail."
As we stood on the dock, seagulls fluttered all around us, buffeted by the wind and sailing on the currents of air. I was reminded of another time in life when I had stood on another dock and watched other seagulls fly above my head. I was reminded of the gift that I opened that day and a gift I have always treasured ever since.
The gift of life. It is the gift of our present; the gift of time. We all have as much as we need to go and make a difference. To make a difference in your self; to make a difference in those around you; to inspire others to make a difference in them selves. Help those who are unable to help them selves. Shine bright so that those in the darkness can see that there is light up ahead. I have done everything in my power to ensure that I have made the most of that gift since that day I stood on that same dock, so many years ago; yet as fresh as yesterday. I have made sure that no moments are wasted and that every last iota of life is treasured and valued. Nothing should ever be wasted when it comes to our lives. We may only have this one chance.
I am closer than ever to having my book ready to publish. It is a story about failure; it is a story about triumph; it is a story of one man's journey through life. It is mine for all to read and hopefully learn from; to hopefully analyze; to hopefully show just how strong the human spirit truly is. It will be another year before it is ready, but what is a year but a drop of sand in the hourglass of the Universe? What is a year but another chance at redemption? What is a year but a collection of happy minutes and seconds turning over and over on the hand of time until they become the memories of our lives.
Yet not one of them stopped to assist her.
I did. Plus one other lady who walked with the aid of a cane. Together as one, we offered our help. The rest is what happened from there. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
We asked her if she was okay: if she was cut or if she had caused any harm to her body. Both of us brushed the glass of her feet and legs and picked out shards from her small little front basket on the chair.
"I was doing so well," she said.
I looked at her, jarred by the sound of her voice, and the depth of emotion it held.
Her hands gripped the handlebars of the steering column and I watched as they shook uncontrollably...and then I realized she did not have complete control of her bodily actions. I realized that she ran into the window because her reaction time was dulled; not by age but by an affliction I may never know.
My heart went out to her and tears welled up in my eyes. The other Good Samaritan asked once more if she was okay and I picked up on her slight yet thick familiar accent. "What part of Newfoundland are you from?" I asked her.
"St. John's", she said.
I laughed. "So am I. It would make sense that the only people who came to her aid would be Newfoundlanders." We both laughed and the lady smiled at us.
As security guards showed up to take care of the broken glass, I walked away and started to think of the irony of it all. There were only three of us and yet all three were, at some point, in the same similar position at one time on their life.
Let me explain. You had the older lady in the motorized wheelchair, the lady with the cane, and me: once upon a time I was encased in a body cast made of fibreglass and plaster. I was defenseless; I had no control; I could only depend on the kindness of strangers; I could only depend on my Mother...at one time in my past I was as helpless as a newborn baby at the tender age of twenty six years old.
Three individuals who were all in three stages at one time in their life. I thought about life and what I was being told; why I had walked by at that exact same instant; what message was being shown that I was not seeing...all of these and more rushed through my head.
I came to the conclusion that I must do something more; that I must not waste any more time on trivial worries and that I must start it now...but start what? Start where? Do I drop out of school and enter a law program in order to fight for the rights of the underprivileged? Do I start up a campaign and raise funds for those who have nothing to eat or no place to sleep or who are unable to pay rising medical bills?
Then, in the midst of all my mental clamour and distress, my Island girl talked to me and pulled my thoughts from my head. She told me that I will do what is needed; that I will make it right one day; but that today was not that day. Write, she said, just write and do what you are meant to do. We both know you were saved from death in order to become something more; we both know you are protected. For that matter, she said, we are all protected but it is only that we all do not realize it.
"Life is happening all around us", she said. "You only hear of a person being kidnapped in Trinidad, but do you hear of the collective Islanders saying prayers for their safe return? Do you hear of the novena's and countless prayers being repeated again and again to ask for God's help?"
"No", she said, "No; because you only hear of the next kidnapping. You only hear of the evil more than the good. It is the evil that sells. But good will always prevail. There is more good than there is evil and the sure numbers of that alone predicate success. Life will prevail."
As we stood on the dock, seagulls fluttered all around us, buffeted by the wind and sailing on the currents of air. I was reminded of another time in life when I had stood on another dock and watched other seagulls fly above my head. I was reminded of the gift that I opened that day and a gift I have always treasured ever since.
The gift of life. It is the gift of our present; the gift of time. We all have as much as we need to go and make a difference. To make a difference in your self; to make a difference in those around you; to inspire others to make a difference in them selves. Help those who are unable to help them selves. Shine bright so that those in the darkness can see that there is light up ahead. I have done everything in my power to ensure that I have made the most of that gift since that day I stood on that same dock, so many years ago; yet as fresh as yesterday. I have made sure that no moments are wasted and that every last iota of life is treasured and valued. Nothing should ever be wasted when it comes to our lives. We may only have this one chance.
I am closer than ever to having my book ready to publish. It is a story about failure; it is a story about triumph; it is a story of one man's journey through life. It is mine for all to read and hopefully learn from; to hopefully analyze; to hopefully show just how strong the human spirit truly is. It will be another year before it is ready, but what is a year but a drop of sand in the hourglass of the Universe? What is a year but another chance at redemption? What is a year but a collection of happy minutes and seconds turning over and over on the hand of time until they become the memories of our lives.
Live it now. Live it for you; live it for her; live it for him; live it for those that are no longer with you. Just please...live it in the best way imaginable. Attain to that higher plateau and see that it is really not that high after all...and when you do, I will be glad to offer my hand in assistance but most importantly: in congratulations. Live. Breathe. Dream. Succeed. Dance. Laugh. Dream some more. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around." - Leo Buscaglia
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Salt of the Earth
"Don't you consider that word derogatory?"
It was years ago when I was asked that question. I sat in an apartment in Lake Louise and was just telling a newfie joke when my Ontario friend asked me about the use of the term itself. I thought about it for a second, looked at him, and said, "No. That is what I am."
I was so wrong. I was so, so wrong. I was guilty of classifying my self and my people into a stereotype.
We are different people, my friends, but we are by no means a stereotype. Let me explain. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I stood in a bar a couple of summers ago, on a humid evening in downtown Halifax, and watched an Irish band sing and dance. The lead singer had a deep resonating voice that carried me away back into childhood days of cutting a jig and rug under my feet. Then it dawned on me.
I knew him.
It had been over a decade ago since we last met, and that had been during our high school days in St. John's. His name was Arthur O'Brien and his band was called The Navigators. After his set was over, I walked up to say hello, and then we stepped out for a drink.
I started talking about home and how I missed it; of how it had been over ten years since I last laid eyes on her rugged and welcoming coast. I mentioned the term "newfie" in passing and Arthur stopped and contemplated my words. Then he spoke and I will never forget what he said.
"We are Newfoundlanders...we are not "newfies". That was a term created in the early seventies when a wave of us emigrated off the rock in search of work; in search of ways in which to feed us; in search of ways to feed our own. For the most part, we landed in Ontario, and if you were to take all the first generation Newfoundlanders out of that province and return them home, well; you would over-populate the island."
"Unfortunately, for some reason, we were looked down upon by everyone outside our island...maybe it was our accent or dialect, maybe it was for our dry humour and ability to take a joke. But, for some reason, that moniker stuck with us and has haunted us ever since. People who have never even placed so much as a toe in Newfoundland feel they have the right to call us by that slanderous name...but they are so wrong in thinking that way."
I have never used that word ever since that day and I have made it a solemn oath to correct anyone who does use it. It is not racist per se but it does hold racist undertones for me. It is an ignorant stereotype used by people who are either too lazy or too daft to properly express their thoughts in words. It is improper to refer to my people in that manner; even though my people occasionally use it to refer to themselves.
Newfoundlanders are the salt of the earth, my friends: we are gregarious, we are gracious, and we are ever so grateful. Did you know that there was a Newfoundlander with Abraham Lincoln at the Gettysburg Address? Did you know that Cabot Tower on Signal Hill in St. John's was the origin of the first transatlantic wireless message? Did you know that a Newfoundlander invented the gasmask? Or that the first successful, non-stop, transatlantic air voyage left from Newfoundland? Or that Newfoundland was the first to respond to the Titanic distress call?
We are known worldwide on the basis of our bravery on one tragic day in July 1st, 1916, during World War I. We are especially known worldwide for our hospitality and welcoming ways, as shown after September 11, 2001, when all planes were grounded and Newfoundlanders opened their doors and offered our homes as places of rest for those without a place to lay their head.
Newfoundlanders are the salt of the earth, my friends: we are gregarious, we are gracious, and we are ever so grateful. Did you know that there was a Newfoundlander with Abraham Lincoln at the Gettysburg Address? Did you know that Cabot Tower on Signal Hill in St. John's was the origin of the first transatlantic wireless message? Did you know that a Newfoundlander invented the gasmask? Or that the first successful, non-stop, transatlantic air voyage left from Newfoundland? Or that Newfoundland was the first to respond to the Titanic distress call?
We are known worldwide on the basis of our bravery on one tragic day in July 1st, 1916, during World War I. We are especially known worldwide for our hospitality and welcoming ways, as shown after September 11, 2001, when all planes were grounded and Newfoundlanders opened their doors and offered our homes as places of rest for those without a place to lay their head.
I spent this past summer in Gros Morne National Park, Newfoundland, the origin of the Continental Drift Theory, and stayed in a boarding room with a lovely family. One day, after a long day of writing and prepping for a morning hike, I came home and found my dinner: bologna and potatoes. I laughed. My host looked at me and said, "Well, come on now...we are newfies."
I didn't say anything that day because he was right, but technically wrong in his use of description: yes, we are; but no, we are not because we are Newfoundlanders first and foremost. We are not a label, we are not a stereotype, and we are most definitely not the laughing stock of Canada...although if you listen to its jokes about us you would believe it to be true.
I didn't say anything that day because he was right, but technically wrong in his use of description: yes, we are; but no, we are not because we are Newfoundlanders first and foremost. We are not a label, we are not a stereotype, and we are most definitely not the laughing stock of Canada...although if you listen to its jokes about us you would believe it to be true.
We have an amazing sense of self, my friends, because we are able to laugh at our selves; we have clarity in our words because our words hold truth and value; we have substance because that is what we come from: salt of the earth. We have character that is moulded from our upbringing and our value in morals and ethics.
We welcome all visitors like family. We are Newfoundlanders.
So, go ahead, tell us a joke about Newfoundlanders: I guarantee you we have heard them all. If by chance, we laugh, then go ahead, tell some more. But, please understand, we are a proud people, and pride can only take so much nescience. When this happens to me, I always leave the best joke for last: What is black and blue and floats in the harbour? It is a mainlander after telling too many newfie jokes. Har-dee-har-har-har. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Humour is an affirmation of God's dignity, a declaration to man's superiority to all that befalls him."- Romain Cary
"Humour is an affirmation of God's dignity, a declaration to man's superiority to all that befalls him."- Romain Cary
Friday, March 10, 2006
Peace Be With You
It was not so many years ago that I stood in a cool Colorado summer breeze, and brushed tears from my eyes. I had just made a pact with God. We agreed that if he brought her home safe, sound, and intact for me, then I promised to find peace in my life. She pulled into the driveway not even a mere thirty minutes later.
She is no longer in my life; no longer are we in contact; our time together, even at that moment, had passed, but yet I have strived to keep up my end of the bargain ever since that night. I have been tested time and time again, but yet every test is no more than a trial and tribulation. Each test is no more than a reason to give thanks for what life offers and attain to that higher plateau of peaceful harmony.
Peace is what has driven me in this life ever since that fateful night, so far away from friends and family, so lonely and desperate for salvation, and in the darkest depths of depression a man can ever experience. In that moment I spoke with God, there was no safe haven for me anymore...except in the safety of his arms. This is not about religion or piety, my friends, it is more so about how I have found peace in the semblance of my life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I have found peace with who I am. I am confident in my self even when I am surrounded by strangers in a sea of umbrella's on a rainy day in New York City. I have found peace in that.
I have found peace in understanding and recognizing the value of fear. I have respect for it yet know it is needed to relinquish control and cascade off a thirty foot cliff with nothing more than a snowboard strapped to my feet...and soft snow beneath to feather my fall. I have found peace in that.
I have found peace with my friends and family. I love them because they show love for me. They accept me for who I am, who I am becoming, and the man they see growing right before their very eyes. They are my heart and soul. They are my very being. I have found peace in that.
I have found peace with my personal choices and decisions. I am creating a life full of wonder through learning and knowledge; it is one rich with wisdom and belief in character. I allow my self to make mistakes and therefore allow the freedom to make my own decisions and grow from those mistakes. Not to grow up per se, but more so to grow down into my soul; to become one with humanity yet stay distinct in my identity. I have found peace in that.
I have found peace with money. I am a poor student with an eye to the future. I know I will make my own personal fortune one day and that I will design it with my own creativity. It will come when it is ready; when I have put in my complete time and effort; when it is decided I am ready for it. Then and only then. I have found peace in that.
I have found peace in life. I am grateful for all it offers; all it grants. I have found peace in following one day after the next and collecting them each into a memory of my time on this earth. I have found peace in the fact that love is alive. I have found peace that I can smile through all the travesties that have been heaped upon me in my short number of years. I have found peace that I will be able to continue smiling no matter what ever else may come my way.
I have found peace in the fact that I am protected.
So, you may ask, how do I know for sure that I have found peace in life? Well, peace is not something we find and then take complacency in it; no, peace is something we strive for every day of our lives until this life is past and our mortal remains are scattered in the rising winds. I know for sure I have found peace by this simple fact: whistling. I whistle when it rains; I whistle when I am sad; I whistle when I am happy; I whistle when I do not even feel like whistling because the act of it alone makes me smile.
So, just go ahead: whistle your worries away and try to refrain from smiling. Listen as others around you join in and whistle their own personal ditties. Realize that it will all be okay one day; that it will all work out in the end. May we all find it one day. Peace be with you. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Imagine all the people living in peace. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you will join us, and the world will live as one." - John Lennon
Friday, February 24, 2006
Necessity of Imagination
Imagination is so key to our everyday lives. The majority of society use it to run away from our problems, some use it to create another life, and others use it to escape the boredom of the ins and outs of one meaningless day after another meaningless day. But there is a minority who use it for what it is really meant for: the combination of reflected thought and insightful language for the application of influential speech.
Let me explain.
I just recently finished a book by Northrop Frye called the Educated Imagination which is a splendid and thought-provoking read, yet a mere sixty five pages in length. Frye writes a collection of his thoughts on the link between literature and imagination and how they are both valuable in moulding an individual's mind. Image and conceived image that society creates for us are important points in his words. His words inspire and teach the individual that we need to educate our minds and step away from the mass collective of sheep standing in line waiting to be sheared; to be an individual. I read, re-read, read some more, and then re-read after that. I learned some things. Here you go and may you enjoy.
Necessity is the link between what we want and what we need. There are many tangible necessities in life: food, water, and sleep being the main staples. Clothing is deemed necessary by society but there are many cultures that do not believe in that necessity. I personally know of one such culture just below the University of British Columbia campus called Wreck Beach that feels the same way. Clothing is en par with image, and image whether you want to admit it or not, is defined by your peers and that of mass society.
Let me explain.
I just recently finished a book by Northrop Frye called the Educated Imagination which is a splendid and thought-provoking read, yet a mere sixty five pages in length. Frye writes a collection of his thoughts on the link between literature and imagination and how they are both valuable in moulding an individual's mind. Image and conceived image that society creates for us are important points in his words. His words inspire and teach the individual that we need to educate our minds and step away from the mass collective of sheep standing in line waiting to be sheared; to be an individual. I read, re-read, read some more, and then re-read after that. I learned some things. Here you go and may you enjoy.
Necessity is the link between what we want and what we need. There are many tangible necessities in life: food, water, and sleep being the main staples. Clothing is deemed necessary by society but there are many cultures that do not believe in that necessity. I personally know of one such culture just below the University of British Columbia campus called Wreck Beach that feels the same way. Clothing is en par with image, and image whether you want to admit it or not, is defined by your peers and that of mass society.
Society is made up of a collective of individual cliques that strives to define and maintain who we are, what we are, and what we eventually become through our chosen image. It defines what a freak is and who the freaks are through their choice of dress and mannerisms; it defines what high class is and who is considered to be upper echelon through their dress and mannerisms; and it defines what cool is by well-placed styled and choice of language and actions.
However, the irony is that although mass society defines image, it is the individual who defines style for the masses. That is, personal style is key in maintaining image but a person with style dresses not for others but more to influence the thoughts of others. In other words, I dress to impress your image of me but your image of me has nothing to do with my identity. If you stripped me down to bare skin it would not strip my identity because my identity is formed through personal reflection of who I am. No one can take that away from me; no one should be able to take that away from you. The clothing you wear is not necessarily who you are but more so a reflection of the fact you are comfortable in your identity of being an individual.
However, the irony is that although mass society defines image, it is the individual who defines style for the masses. That is, personal style is key in maintaining image but a person with style dresses not for others but more to influence the thoughts of others. In other words, I dress to impress your image of me but your image of me has nothing to do with my identity. If you stripped me down to bare skin it would not strip my identity because my identity is formed through personal reflection of who I am. No one can take that away from me; no one should be able to take that away from you. The clothing you wear is not necessarily who you are but more so a reflection of the fact you are comfortable in your identity of being an individual.
Your imagination is an expression of that individuality.
Individual imagination is the link between creativity and personal growth: see your self as being a certain person, make it a wish in life, apply that wish to your will, and decide it is what you need to be truly happy in life. This does not mean money or possessions, it is not about the wants in life, it is more about the needs in life. It is needed to reflect on what is truly important to us and what we have always felt was missing in our existence.
Individual imagination is the link between creativity and personal growth: see your self as being a certain person, make it a wish in life, apply that wish to your will, and decide it is what you need to be truly happy in life. This does not mean money or possessions, it is not about the wants in life, it is more about the needs in life. It is needed to reflect on what is truly important to us and what we have always felt was missing in our existence.
Therefore, it is necessary to understand the role of imagination and, specifically, the necessity of an educated imagination. We educate our selves through the act of discipline and breaking our thoughts down into a pseudo-funnel of speech. By funneling that speech through logic and applied reasoning, we are able to speak in words designed to not only influence, but to apply scenarios and analogies to life. Imagination is not only important for internal thought but for an external expression of language. If the spoken word is nothing more than a thought expressed into language, then would it not make sense to understand how an educated imagination aids us in developing our thoughts into a more coherent level of understanding for everyone?
We all have a vivid imagination but do we all apply it to our everyday lives? We all have dreams but do we all believe so strongly in those dreams that we can imagine them happening? We all have goals and objectives but do we all place the educated discipline into achieving them? It is not that hard, my friends, it only takes a creative imagination, an education of your mind, discipline in following your dreams, and application of wish and will.
No, it may not happen over night, and yes, there is a chance of failure in your journey. But, without actually taking that first step, you will never really know what true success tastes like. Dreams are not there for the taking for everyone but they are there for those who believe anything is possible. They are there for those who see life as more than a day in-day out shuffle through time and space.
So, go on, be an individual: think a little harder; imagine you are teaching in front of a class; walking on foreign sands; or making music for the masses to sing and dance to. Don't let society define you but instead define your own identity and educate the masses on the importance of style; the importance of reflected thought and applicated imagination. Live for you not for others. Be a minority: I dare you.
Can you see it? Can you feel it? But, most of all...can you live it? Reach for the stars and you will find they are closer than you imagined. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"In these days, we are in a hare-and-tortoise race between mob rule and education: to avoid collapsing into mob rule we have to try to educate a minority that'll stand out against it."
- Northrop Frye
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Beating of the Forgotten Heart
Lo and behold...it beats again.
I lay awake at nights now and listen to my heart beat ever so fast. I think of her smile and it beats faster. I hear her laughter and it beats faster still. I remember her touch and it beats through the surface of my skin.
Is this what it is truly meant to be like? Is this what it feels like to have another recognize your worth...to recognize your soul? Are our jaws meant to hurt this much because we are always smiling in pure happiness? Only time will tell but so far it has told me oh so much. The following is a story about the beginnings of a friendship and a true romance. Here you go and may you enjoy.
I have never been one to shy away from emotion - not mine, not yours, and not anyone else's for that matter. Emotion is what makes us human; it is what makes us raw; it is what makes our senses come alive with expression. Anger helps us realize anger is unnecessary; sadness allows us to taste ever-so-sweet pain; and happiness permits us to fly with angels.
Emotions are real. They remind us all that life is real.
But love as an emotion has never really lasted as a tangible for me...love for me has always been a handful of sand slipping through the tiny cracks in my tightly clenched fist. I have stood on a beach full of crystal but yet always ended up with the same result...lost through my fingers and lost in my life. I would stay the same while the other person would change. Or maybe we were always two completely different people not fated to be in this world.
Time always told the tale. My heart always paid the price. Still I soldiered on.
It was only a month ago that I had admitted the fact I was done with it for a while: done with the casual hello and the painful goodbye, done with the changing of self for the sake of another, and done with sleepless nights worrying how another may think. I told my self it was not worth it to put a soul through that anymore. I decided the next time would be with someone who recognized my worth. That it would be someone who took me for who I am.
I told my self that it was time to give up the search. I had searched high and low, through separate countries, and through Mountains and over seas. It was just a silly dream I told my self. Yes, sure, it brought me to so many places, and so many interesting, exciting memories were made, but in the end, was all the pain and loss worth it? Would it not be worth more to let it go and leave it behind so I could progress forward instead of staying in the same spot?
So I decided it was time to walk alone and if that meant walking alone for a lifetime then so be it. I placed my trust in the Universe and kept moving forward...one foot in front of the other. Smiling at life. Always smiling at what it brings me no matter what else comes my way. I would never give up on love because deep down inside I knew it would never give up on me.
I knew that if she was really out there waiting for me then it would have to be her that came to find me this time. If she was out there then she would make her self known.
Then it happened: a chance meeting on a cold winter evening. Lingering moments spent in a mirrored reflection of two familiar souls passing in the night. I listened in awe as she told me her want for someone to recognize her for true worth...her want for someone to take her as she is. I felt my breath catch in my throat as her words rang clear to the depths of my being. As she spoke, I felt my heart speed up ever so slightly.
It has not stopped its mad frantic race ever since.
Her eyes tell a different story from any other I have ever heard. They dance with mischief; they blaze with passion; and they hold mine in a deep embrace. Her eyes tell me she recognizes my worth and her words echo my unspoken thoughts. Her fingers brush against everything I have ever held true in my beliefs about what love was...and then it holds that belief ever so gently in the palm of her hand.
She is present in her emotion - she does not shy away from it nor does she hide it away from others. She is real. I have no idea what time holds for us. I only know what I have seen in this lifetime...I only know we are one in the same.
We fit.
I think of a life with her by my side. Not in front of me or behind me but right alongside of me. Walking and talking; laughing and smiling. There are not enough toes in the world to count off the ways she makes me happy...there are not enough hours in the day to spend with her in my presence. For every hard goodbye and parting of ways comes a smiling hello and hours full of special seconds. We make it all count. We leave nothing to chance. We talk. We listen. We grow.
And my heart beats faster and faster...faster and faster still.
I am still the same person. I still lift my legs when I drive over railyway tracks. I still hold the door open for people. I still wake in the morning and give thanks for life and all it offers. But she inspires an already inspired man to reach more; to achieve more; to accomplish his dreams. She is still the same person. She smiles at everyone she sees. She believes that love is not meant to be buried but appreciated and nurtured so it can grow for all to see. Together we become something more...something special.
Believe that love exists and show your friends and family that you care for them. Hug and laugh with them. Don't change who you are for someone else and remember to breathe in life. It will show you the way to your dreams. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Do you remember when we first met...I sure do. It was some time in early September. Well you were lazy about it you made me wait around...I was so crazy about you I didn't mind."
- Jack Johnson
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Nurture the Child
Bang.
We all have an inner child within that holds the answers to hidden questions; that holds the key to locked doors from our past. This little child sits on a doorstep on a hot summer day, swinging their legs back and forth, wanting to play, yet not understanding why people are so mean; why their friends insist on picking on them. The child only understands simplicity; innocence; it only understands the freedom of laughter.
Yet as we grow older, the idea of innocence becomes lost amongst the trials and tribulations of life: simplicity becomes a tormented past; a tormented past becomes a childhood lost; a childhood lost becomes the result of an unhappy adult.
Picture your self as a child again: What would you look like? What was important to you? I see a young boy with unruly curly locks; a demeanour of stubbornness and a look of determination on my face with arms crossed; and a strapping of six shooters around my waist, ready to draw and shoot if the camera does not click fast and the flash goes off. A moment captured in the archives of time. Can you see me? It is from this image that I will tell a story. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Bang.
No matter where you read this or what background you may be from, it will be the same for us one and all: once upon a time we were all children. Everything was new; everything was an adventure; and our Mothers were always seemingly telling us what to do: Come to dinner, wash your face, close the door because we are not paying to heat up the neighbourhood, and so on and so on. Yet she was the one we always ran to after falling and scraping our knees; the only one who knew how to heal all travesties with the magic of a simple kiss; the one who tucked us in at night and made our dreams sweet with a story or a whispered "I love you."
What happens to us as we grow older? What do we lose in the swirling sands of time? Why must we always be so serious now when it is so much easier to laugh and smile instead?
Why indeed.
A wise woman once told me it is important to talk to that child from within; that it is necessary for personal growth; that it enables us to release torment from our past; that it allows us to heal, nay, it allows us to be free once more. She told me to lay in bed, to close my eyes, and to drop into my inner conscious and find that young child once again.
She asked me to not only find him, but to have a conversation with him; to take his hand and walk a while with him by my side; to listen to his words of unfathomable wisdom; to realize this very same child would one day become, well; would one day become me.
I know it sounds crazy, believe me I do. But I closed off the world for an hour or so before sleep last night; I ignored the worries of adulthood; and went in search of childhood. I found a young boy all by him self, running around with no one to play, and yet still smiling and still laughing. I took him by the hand and asked him how he was; took him by the hand and asked him if he was okay. In his eyes I saw the innocence of youth. In his smile I saw the memory of summer past. In his stature I saw the determination of an unforseeable future.
Bang.
We talked. I listened. We laughed. I healed. Not too much later he asked if it was okay for him to go and find his friends so he could play.
"Will you come back again?" He asked. "I would like it very much if you would come back again so we could talk some more."
Yes, I said, yes. I would like that very much.
"Promise?" He asked once more.
Yes, I said, I promise.
Then he smiled at me and walked away. As I watched him go, the child suddenly turned around with guns drawn and said "Bang." He ran away giggling into the hot summer sun and trailing peals of childish joy behind him. He ran away leaving a man in awe of life.
Find your child within. Find the time to take them by the hand and walk along the dusty roads of forgotten paths. Find the time to talk. Find the time to listen. Find the time to laugh like a child again. But, above all, find the time to heal. Find the time to remember who we were eventually becomes what we are.
Dream. Search. Question. Live. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Beauty is being in harmony with what you are." - Peter Nivio Zarlenga
We all have an inner child within that holds the answers to hidden questions; that holds the key to locked doors from our past. This little child sits on a doorstep on a hot summer day, swinging their legs back and forth, wanting to play, yet not understanding why people are so mean; why their friends insist on picking on them. The child only understands simplicity; innocence; it only understands the freedom of laughter.
Yet as we grow older, the idea of innocence becomes lost amongst the trials and tribulations of life: simplicity becomes a tormented past; a tormented past becomes a childhood lost; a childhood lost becomes the result of an unhappy adult.
Picture your self as a child again: What would you look like? What was important to you? I see a young boy with unruly curly locks; a demeanour of stubbornness and a look of determination on my face with arms crossed; and a strapping of six shooters around my waist, ready to draw and shoot if the camera does not click fast and the flash goes off. A moment captured in the archives of time. Can you see me? It is from this image that I will tell a story. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Bang.
No matter where you read this or what background you may be from, it will be the same for us one and all: once upon a time we were all children. Everything was new; everything was an adventure; and our Mothers were always seemingly telling us what to do: Come to dinner, wash your face, close the door because we are not paying to heat up the neighbourhood, and so on and so on. Yet she was the one we always ran to after falling and scraping our knees; the only one who knew how to heal all travesties with the magic of a simple kiss; the one who tucked us in at night and made our dreams sweet with a story or a whispered "I love you."
What happens to us as we grow older? What do we lose in the swirling sands of time? Why must we always be so serious now when it is so much easier to laugh and smile instead?
Why indeed.
A wise woman once told me it is important to talk to that child from within; that it is necessary for personal growth; that it enables us to release torment from our past; that it allows us to heal, nay, it allows us to be free once more. She told me to lay in bed, to close my eyes, and to drop into my inner conscious and find that young child once again.
She asked me to not only find him, but to have a conversation with him; to take his hand and walk a while with him by my side; to listen to his words of unfathomable wisdom; to realize this very same child would one day become, well; would one day become me.
I know it sounds crazy, believe me I do. But I closed off the world for an hour or so before sleep last night; I ignored the worries of adulthood; and went in search of childhood. I found a young boy all by him self, running around with no one to play, and yet still smiling and still laughing. I took him by the hand and asked him how he was; took him by the hand and asked him if he was okay. In his eyes I saw the innocence of youth. In his smile I saw the memory of summer past. In his stature I saw the determination of an unforseeable future.
Bang.
We talked. I listened. We laughed. I healed. Not too much later he asked if it was okay for him to go and find his friends so he could play.
"Will you come back again?" He asked. "I would like it very much if you would come back again so we could talk some more."
Yes, I said, yes. I would like that very much.
"Promise?" He asked once more.
Yes, I said, I promise.
Then he smiled at me and walked away. As I watched him go, the child suddenly turned around with guns drawn and said "Bang." He ran away giggling into the hot summer sun and trailing peals of childish joy behind him. He ran away leaving a man in awe of life.
Find your child within. Find the time to take them by the hand and walk along the dusty roads of forgotten paths. Find the time to talk. Find the time to listen. Find the time to laugh like a child again. But, above all, find the time to heal. Find the time to remember who we were eventually becomes what we are.
Dream. Search. Question. Live. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Beauty is being in harmony with what you are." - Peter Nivio Zarlenga
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Rainbows and Butterflies
It is not fun to wake up with a headache; to sleep with a headache; to breathe with a headache; or to even study with a headache. It is not fun to live with a daily reminder of a whacked out night lost in the shifting sands of time. But, although I am used to living life with these headaches, I made a vow years ago to never let them dictate my life.
Now in my present days, I feel that vow bending at times as the pain becomes constant and oh so overbearing. When the thud just thumps and the lights become bright; when the interesting conversation is unfortunately lost to the stimulation of a racing heart beat.
But we are only truly responsible for one thing in this life: to adapt; to overcome; and to evolve. We can either shoulder the responsibility of working harder when the level of responsibility increases or we can throw our cards in and call it a game. It is up to us; up to you; up to me. How we walk with our heads high is determined by the individual. This is how I do it. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
When even the slightest touch from a loved one brings with it a grasp of pain; when even the lightest kiss brings with it a wary cringe of the eyebrow. These are the days when only darkness brings with it relief. A want to shut away from the world and sleep the madness away into the depths of time. But no. That would be giving up.
So yesterday I stayed awake and fought through the heavy press of eyelids, stayed awake through the insistent nag of a digging blade behind my eyes, and I stayed awake to read and edit an old life. I did what I always do: write, write, and write some more.
It is the sweetest love in my life. To take thoughts and place them in print, to read a life that seems so alien to me yet I recognize it as my own. It is when I forget the pain, it is when I forget the loss of love, and it is when I remember that it feels so good to be alive.
It will not end me. I will not allow it. It is not in the act of refusal that I take strength but in the intention of being something more. They can poke and prod me to find empty answers to questions I have asked many many times. They can even call me a medical mystery. I already know I am a walking miracle. Nothing will ever stop me from reaching my goals.
Not even the constant thump, thump, thumping of blinding white lights ripping and surging through my memories. No. Never. I am too strong for it. For all my human frailties and limitations I refuse to let anything but my goals shine the way for me. Even as the candle burns brightly in front of me I will ignore the dripping hot wax coating my hand.
I will do my best to ignore the pain.
A quick look into self to recognize strength is all we need in the end. To recognize the shift in our direction, to adapt to that shift, to overcome and evolve. In front of us lies the road to all of our questions; the road to all of our dreams. If we let it wear us down, if we let it stop us when life is at its hardest and the storm rages on and on, if we let it beat us, well; then we have truly lost. Find your own strength, my friends, find it when the day is long, and find it when the night is black and dark.
Find it in your self. Fight. Never give in. Fight damn it. Fight. In the end, it is life that we fight to live; it is life that we fight to understand. Never stop questioning and never stop dreaming. When it is all said and done, pain is only weakness leaving your body. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Well I woke up this morning, rainbows filled the sky. Yes I woke up this morning and rainbows filled the sky. And there was God telling me "everything's going to be alright." - Jack Johnson
Now in my present days, I feel that vow bending at times as the pain becomes constant and oh so overbearing. When the thud just thumps and the lights become bright; when the interesting conversation is unfortunately lost to the stimulation of a racing heart beat.
But we are only truly responsible for one thing in this life: to adapt; to overcome; and to evolve. We can either shoulder the responsibility of working harder when the level of responsibility increases or we can throw our cards in and call it a game. It is up to us; up to you; up to me. How we walk with our heads high is determined by the individual. This is how I do it. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
When even the slightest touch from a loved one brings with it a grasp of pain; when even the lightest kiss brings with it a wary cringe of the eyebrow. These are the days when only darkness brings with it relief. A want to shut away from the world and sleep the madness away into the depths of time. But no. That would be giving up.
So yesterday I stayed awake and fought through the heavy press of eyelids, stayed awake through the insistent nag of a digging blade behind my eyes, and I stayed awake to read and edit an old life. I did what I always do: write, write, and write some more.
It is the sweetest love in my life. To take thoughts and place them in print, to read a life that seems so alien to me yet I recognize it as my own. It is when I forget the pain, it is when I forget the loss of love, and it is when I remember that it feels so good to be alive.
It will not end me. I will not allow it. It is not in the act of refusal that I take strength but in the intention of being something more. They can poke and prod me to find empty answers to questions I have asked many many times. They can even call me a medical mystery. I already know I am a walking miracle. Nothing will ever stop me from reaching my goals.
Not even the constant thump, thump, thumping of blinding white lights ripping and surging through my memories. No. Never. I am too strong for it. For all my human frailties and limitations I refuse to let anything but my goals shine the way for me. Even as the candle burns brightly in front of me I will ignore the dripping hot wax coating my hand.
I will do my best to ignore the pain.
A quick look into self to recognize strength is all we need in the end. To recognize the shift in our direction, to adapt to that shift, to overcome and evolve. In front of us lies the road to all of our questions; the road to all of our dreams. If we let it wear us down, if we let it stop us when life is at its hardest and the storm rages on and on, if we let it beat us, well; then we have truly lost. Find your own strength, my friends, find it when the day is long, and find it when the night is black and dark.
Find it in your self. Fight. Never give in. Fight damn it. Fight. In the end, it is life that we fight to live; it is life that we fight to understand. Never stop questioning and never stop dreaming. When it is all said and done, pain is only weakness leaving your body. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Well I woke up this morning, rainbows filled the sky. Yes I woke up this morning and rainbows filled the sky. And there was God telling me "everything's going to be alright." - Jack Johnson
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Frozen Memories
My breath was a puff of frozen air and my feet made small crunching sounds in the new snow. The cacophony of the busy highway crackled all around me as my mind drifted back in time…to a different life and a different setting.
I walked through the soft falling flakes of powder today and remembered mornings when I dressed in layers of thermal clothing: first layer to wick the sweat, second layer to trap the heat, a third layer for insulation, and then the socks. Sliding into baggy snowboard pants, tightening the belt but keeping slack for room to spin my body, and pulling my jacket over my shoulders; vents closed and pockets zipped tight.
Next came the boots, laces drawn snug, and then a run for the door. Here is a story of why I love winter and the feeling of soft snow falling all around me. The memory of the search of fresh powder to ride; the search of hidden bowls and tree runs. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Picture your self on a chairlift, your feet swaying lazily beneath you in the open air, the wind cold and brisk on your face, and flecks of falling snow on your tongue. You look at your friends and smile at their grins of mischief; grin at your own thoughts of pure abandonment. Imagine the whisk of the seat as you slide off of it and feel the snow as you glide over its surface.
Hike high on a mountain face as your boots sink into a deep hole of yielding velvet and listen to your heart pound blood in your ears. Stand on top of the world and survey your domain of valleys made of rock and stone. Hear laughter all around you and glimpse fragments of childhood memories of days spent with no worry; days of no care.
Click in and enjoy the ride.
Drift along currents of white, run your hand behind you and trail your fingers in the quiet wake. Spy a forest in the distance, over the hills and far away. Glide into its sanctity of hush and stillness; notice that even the wind falls silent in respect. It is in the shelter of trees that snow becomes a kaleidoscope of champagne dust sprinkled from the heavens.
Give thanks for the softness of life; give thanks for the softness of Nature. Sit. Listen. Breathe. Remember. Forgive.
Stand. Charge.
Ride through trees of green and white, snap off bows laden with snowflakes as you brush by them, and feed off the adrenaline now in control of your actions. Feel the branches crack across your forearms and rampage through life with a grunt and a yell. Lean back on your rear foot and surf across the waves of powder, drop your knee and dig deep to send a rooster of white up and over your shoulder.
Wipe snow off your goggles and slide your fingers over your mouth; taste the excitement wet and delicious on your pallet. Suck in your breath as the ground falls steep, follow the rush, and drift off a lip of snow…and fly with the birds in a frozen moment in time; a frozen stall of thought.
Land with an explosion of earth as it shatters and buries you in its grasp, and then lets you go with a whisper of luck. Ride. Ride. Ride.
I return to my present in a fracture of thought and memory. Images flutter away yet leave a blanket of fleece and warmth. The mountains will always be there, I know, but I miss them so, especially when the winds howl and the snow falls. Oh how they pushed me to be better; to be more. But I can always return once again. Not so long away and yet so far to go.
My love. My passion. My soul. These are the inspirational push from behind now; the push to be more; the push to learn; the push to progress. When once I only believed in self and questioning of self, I now believe in us all; believe that we must always question, search, question and ask, then search some more. The more you search the more you find. The more you find the more you learn. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"It's the experience that counts rather than the percieved happiness." - Craig Kelly
I walked through the soft falling flakes of powder today and remembered mornings when I dressed in layers of thermal clothing: first layer to wick the sweat, second layer to trap the heat, a third layer for insulation, and then the socks. Sliding into baggy snowboard pants, tightening the belt but keeping slack for room to spin my body, and pulling my jacket over my shoulders; vents closed and pockets zipped tight.
Next came the boots, laces drawn snug, and then a run for the door. Here is a story of why I love winter and the feeling of soft snow falling all around me. The memory of the search of fresh powder to ride; the search of hidden bowls and tree runs. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Picture your self on a chairlift, your feet swaying lazily beneath you in the open air, the wind cold and brisk on your face, and flecks of falling snow on your tongue. You look at your friends and smile at their grins of mischief; grin at your own thoughts of pure abandonment. Imagine the whisk of the seat as you slide off of it and feel the snow as you glide over its surface.
Hike high on a mountain face as your boots sink into a deep hole of yielding velvet and listen to your heart pound blood in your ears. Stand on top of the world and survey your domain of valleys made of rock and stone. Hear laughter all around you and glimpse fragments of childhood memories of days spent with no worry; days of no care.
Click in and enjoy the ride.
Drift along currents of white, run your hand behind you and trail your fingers in the quiet wake. Spy a forest in the distance, over the hills and far away. Glide into its sanctity of hush and stillness; notice that even the wind falls silent in respect. It is in the shelter of trees that snow becomes a kaleidoscope of champagne dust sprinkled from the heavens.
Give thanks for the softness of life; give thanks for the softness of Nature. Sit. Listen. Breathe. Remember. Forgive.
Stand. Charge.
Ride through trees of green and white, snap off bows laden with snowflakes as you brush by them, and feed off the adrenaline now in control of your actions. Feel the branches crack across your forearms and rampage through life with a grunt and a yell. Lean back on your rear foot and surf across the waves of powder, drop your knee and dig deep to send a rooster of white up and over your shoulder.
Wipe snow off your goggles and slide your fingers over your mouth; taste the excitement wet and delicious on your pallet. Suck in your breath as the ground falls steep, follow the rush, and drift off a lip of snow…and fly with the birds in a frozen moment in time; a frozen stall of thought.
Land with an explosion of earth as it shatters and buries you in its grasp, and then lets you go with a whisper of luck. Ride. Ride. Ride.
I return to my present in a fracture of thought and memory. Images flutter away yet leave a blanket of fleece and warmth. The mountains will always be there, I know, but I miss them so, especially when the winds howl and the snow falls. Oh how they pushed me to be better; to be more. But I can always return once again. Not so long away and yet so far to go.
My love. My passion. My soul. These are the inspirational push from behind now; the push to be more; the push to learn; the push to progress. When once I only believed in self and questioning of self, I now believe in us all; believe that we must always question, search, question and ask, then search some more. The more you search the more you find. The more you find the more you learn. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"It's the experience that counts rather than the percieved happiness." - Craig Kelly
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Origin of Rational Thought
Virtuous adjective Having or showing virtue, especially moral excellence.
Character noun Moral or ethical strength.
Ethics are made of non-contradictory principles, and therefore, are an essential formula for life. There are various factions of ethics, for example, Deontological ethics which are based on the practice of intrinsically right or wrong duties and rules; or Teleological ethics, which are based on the emphasis of cause and effect decisions and what they achieve.
Then there are Virtue ethics. This is the practice of ethical decision based upon individual character traits. That is, if you perceive honesty as a personal trait, then you will always be honest no matter the circumstance. You live your life by this personal code and you base all actions on a particular choice of character traits. Virtue is a sign of knowledge: knowledge of self, knowledge of decisions, and knowledge of a sound formula for just action.
Therefore, if knowledge of virtue requires practice and exercise of said principles, then it can be stated that knowledge and virtue are indeed interchangeable; it can be stated that knowledge and virtue form our character.
At the end of the day these ideas make the difference in breaking through the clutter of crumbling walls; it is what we take from our precious seconds of organized time of reflection. Here are some of my reflections on what knowledge and virtue mean to me. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Virtuous beliefs are formed through virtuous thought. They come from personal reflection: reflection of our life and times, reflection of past mistakes, and reflection on acknowledgement of these mistakes. If you truly believe that mistakes are made in order to learn, then you will see the value in no longer making them. You will learn the lesson. In fact, you will come to see repetitious mistakes as what they truly are: an effective barrier placed over your inevitable growth of soul.
Rational thought is our own to form and apply as we may. I can explain rational thought to you as I view it, but what is rational thought as you see it? My explanation of rational thought makes sense to me; however, it might not necessarily make sense to you. I could use rhetoric to influence your rationale in an effective matter but that would mean I have not achieved my end goal…and my end goal is for us all to think for ourselves, not as another may tell you to think; or what to think; or how to think.
So, once again, I return to virtue as being equal to knowledge and vice versa. I will state the intercessory to bridge the gap between these two interchangeable ideas and the purpose of rational thought. It is the taking of these three elements, applying each to our lives, and realizing what is needed to evolve; to survive; to progress.
The missing link is wisdom.
Wisdom is the taking of practical reasoning, applying past experience, and using rational action in life decisions. For example, if you believe in the virtue of patience and see that everything has a time and place, and therefore, need not be rushed, well; you now have a formula to use when faced with a dilemma. You use the virtue of patience to reflect on a possible consequence instead of rushing to a hasty decision. Through practice of virtue you gain knowledge of how to act in tight situations, when before you would have grabbed on to something; anything in order to ground your self in life.
Now picture that the same situation arises again and again. What do you do?
Well, through proper reflection, you recognize that it is not a situation per se, but in fact it is the same mistake arising again and again. Once you recognize the mistake, you can now acknowledge that its lesson has been learned. You have now applied practical reasoning to past experience, and applied rational thought to effective action.
You now have wisdom.
So many of us feel that it is much better to ground ourselves in past mistakes; maybe because we feel we owe something, anything, to our past. Our souls travel along broken roads, scuffing our dirty feet in the lost remnants of our lives. It need not be that way.
Let me explain.
I have learned so much about character in my university years: societal character and individual character of past and present. I have come to see that my whispered thoughts actually hold valid truth when I once felt they were only random words. I become lost in these thoughts at times. When that happens, I can freely admit that it is needed to ground my self in something; in anything. I choose to ground my self in faith. Faith in me. Faith in you. Faith in us all. I prefer to ground my self in this glorious creation we call life.
That is virtue of character, my friends. When the road seems long and oh so dark, you must believe that much harder in your self. You must not only believe, but you must also learn to trust that your path is just; that your path is true. Understand that your character is forming it self into your personal reflection and what you feel on the inside will show true on the outside.
One more morning is one more reason to shine. One more day is one step closer. One more night is another glimpse of time to reflect on who we are and who we will become. Be resilient. Be strong. Know that it is okay. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is a habit." - Socrates
Character noun Moral or ethical strength.
Ethics are made of non-contradictory principles, and therefore, are an essential formula for life. There are various factions of ethics, for example, Deontological ethics which are based on the practice of intrinsically right or wrong duties and rules; or Teleological ethics, which are based on the emphasis of cause and effect decisions and what they achieve.
Then there are Virtue ethics. This is the practice of ethical decision based upon individual character traits. That is, if you perceive honesty as a personal trait, then you will always be honest no matter the circumstance. You live your life by this personal code and you base all actions on a particular choice of character traits. Virtue is a sign of knowledge: knowledge of self, knowledge of decisions, and knowledge of a sound formula for just action.
Therefore, if knowledge of virtue requires practice and exercise of said principles, then it can be stated that knowledge and virtue are indeed interchangeable; it can be stated that knowledge and virtue form our character.
At the end of the day these ideas make the difference in breaking through the clutter of crumbling walls; it is what we take from our precious seconds of organized time of reflection. Here are some of my reflections on what knowledge and virtue mean to me. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
Virtuous beliefs are formed through virtuous thought. They come from personal reflection: reflection of our life and times, reflection of past mistakes, and reflection on acknowledgement of these mistakes. If you truly believe that mistakes are made in order to learn, then you will see the value in no longer making them. You will learn the lesson. In fact, you will come to see repetitious mistakes as what they truly are: an effective barrier placed over your inevitable growth of soul.
Rational thought is our own to form and apply as we may. I can explain rational thought to you as I view it, but what is rational thought as you see it? My explanation of rational thought makes sense to me; however, it might not necessarily make sense to you. I could use rhetoric to influence your rationale in an effective matter but that would mean I have not achieved my end goal…and my end goal is for us all to think for ourselves, not as another may tell you to think; or what to think; or how to think.
So, once again, I return to virtue as being equal to knowledge and vice versa. I will state the intercessory to bridge the gap between these two interchangeable ideas and the purpose of rational thought. It is the taking of these three elements, applying each to our lives, and realizing what is needed to evolve; to survive; to progress.
The missing link is wisdom.
Wisdom is the taking of practical reasoning, applying past experience, and using rational action in life decisions. For example, if you believe in the virtue of patience and see that everything has a time and place, and therefore, need not be rushed, well; you now have a formula to use when faced with a dilemma. You use the virtue of patience to reflect on a possible consequence instead of rushing to a hasty decision. Through practice of virtue you gain knowledge of how to act in tight situations, when before you would have grabbed on to something; anything in order to ground your self in life.
Now picture that the same situation arises again and again. What do you do?
Well, through proper reflection, you recognize that it is not a situation per se, but in fact it is the same mistake arising again and again. Once you recognize the mistake, you can now acknowledge that its lesson has been learned. You have now applied practical reasoning to past experience, and applied rational thought to effective action.
You now have wisdom.
So many of us feel that it is much better to ground ourselves in past mistakes; maybe because we feel we owe something, anything, to our past. Our souls travel along broken roads, scuffing our dirty feet in the lost remnants of our lives. It need not be that way.
Let me explain.
I have learned so much about character in my university years: societal character and individual character of past and present. I have come to see that my whispered thoughts actually hold valid truth when I once felt they were only random words. I become lost in these thoughts at times. When that happens, I can freely admit that it is needed to ground my self in something; in anything. I choose to ground my self in faith. Faith in me. Faith in you. Faith in us all. I prefer to ground my self in this glorious creation we call life.
That is virtue of character, my friends. When the road seems long and oh so dark, you must believe that much harder in your self. You must not only believe, but you must also learn to trust that your path is just; that your path is true. Understand that your character is forming it self into your personal reflection and what you feel on the inside will show true on the outside.
One more morning is one more reason to shine. One more day is one step closer. One more night is another glimpse of time to reflect on who we are and who we will become. Be resilient. Be strong. Know that it is okay. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is a habit." - Socrates
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Coming of Winter
Swirling leaves blew up all around me. Rain pounded on my windshield. My thoughts ran back in time to only a week ago; a time when my whole world turned black for three days. A slight thud pounded above my eyes. I squinted through the sheets and did my best to ignore. I remembered what I am not allowed to forget.
The colours of autumn passed in front of my eyes and the wind whistled through a crack in the window. I lost my self in its current and faded back to only days ago.
Drugs. Pain. Loss of sleep. Stress. Compassion. Blackness. All of it in only seventy two hours of my life. The story of how I lost most of them in the hazy shadows of a bad bad headache. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
My headaches have always been the bane of my existence since childhood. Migraines they are called. I only wish I was so lucky to have one of these migraines because mine are much, much...much worse. Yet it is always the same diagnosis and the same prescription of ineffective drugs. Yet always the same end result.
They had been absent as of late and I began to hope they were on extended leave. I sat in my class last week when it hit me. An insane line of splintered pain ran across the back of my head to the front of my skull. It slashed a razor arc between my eyes and then just sat there. It pulsated slightly but not so slightly that I did not feel its insistent message: I am here it said. And I am here to stay for a while this time.
I sat numbed in my class, aware of the voices in the room, assaulted by the bright white lights, and acknowledged there would soon be a full systems shut-down. I stumbled to the campus doctor, grabbed some minor drugs, went home for more, and called my best friend the Paramedic. He shuttled me to the hospital for nine hours of wait, wait and wait some more. Throw in some more drugs, this time of the heavier kind, and top it off with a catscan whirring over my head.
Drowsy and drugged, I fell into a coma for a couple of hours. I woke in a hospital bed with synthetic heroin in my bloodstream and away we go. The next morning I headed to school, and walked like the living dead have arisen. Pain now a common presence as I shuffled slowly and my personal Paramedic kept a tight vigil at my side. I go to the campus doctor once again for more tests, more of the same drugs, and then suddenly found myself washing dishes in the dark.
Blessed darkness. Windows shut tight, blinds pulled close, and a pillow over my head to block any remaining light. Then black...nothing but a sweet starless sky. My roomates told me they rock papered scissored to go in my room and see if I was alive. Yet I only knew eighteen hours of exquisite blackness. I was out cold.
It has been over a week now since then.
I wish I could tell you pain has left but I would be a liar. I wish I could tell you it lingers ever so lightly but it has me tight in its jaws. Every now and then it gives me a good shake to remind me to continue on no matter the cost. Don't give in to anything it says because I never will.
I will find a way to one day ease the mandibles of pressure and when I do the whole world will know. But for now I breathe a little harder, think a little deeper, and smile through it all. I won't let it be my maker. Only I can be that.
Be strong. Work harder and work another way. Be resilient. Be a foundation for others to build upon. Be yourself. Fight damn it; fight through it until the wall is crumbling all around you. Then build anew. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit." - Bernard Williams
The colours of autumn passed in front of my eyes and the wind whistled through a crack in the window. I lost my self in its current and faded back to only days ago.
Drugs. Pain. Loss of sleep. Stress. Compassion. Blackness. All of it in only seventy two hours of my life. The story of how I lost most of them in the hazy shadows of a bad bad headache. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
My headaches have always been the bane of my existence since childhood. Migraines they are called. I only wish I was so lucky to have one of these migraines because mine are much, much...much worse. Yet it is always the same diagnosis and the same prescription of ineffective drugs. Yet always the same end result.
They had been absent as of late and I began to hope they were on extended leave. I sat in my class last week when it hit me. An insane line of splintered pain ran across the back of my head to the front of my skull. It slashed a razor arc between my eyes and then just sat there. It pulsated slightly but not so slightly that I did not feel its insistent message: I am here it said. And I am here to stay for a while this time.
I sat numbed in my class, aware of the voices in the room, assaulted by the bright white lights, and acknowledged there would soon be a full systems shut-down. I stumbled to the campus doctor, grabbed some minor drugs, went home for more, and called my best friend the Paramedic. He shuttled me to the hospital for nine hours of wait, wait and wait some more. Throw in some more drugs, this time of the heavier kind, and top it off with a catscan whirring over my head.
Drowsy and drugged, I fell into a coma for a couple of hours. I woke in a hospital bed with synthetic heroin in my bloodstream and away we go. The next morning I headed to school, and walked like the living dead have arisen. Pain now a common presence as I shuffled slowly and my personal Paramedic kept a tight vigil at my side. I go to the campus doctor once again for more tests, more of the same drugs, and then suddenly found myself washing dishes in the dark.
Blessed darkness. Windows shut tight, blinds pulled close, and a pillow over my head to block any remaining light. Then black...nothing but a sweet starless sky. My roomates told me they rock papered scissored to go in my room and see if I was alive. Yet I only knew eighteen hours of exquisite blackness. I was out cold.
It has been over a week now since then.
I wish I could tell you pain has left but I would be a liar. I wish I could tell you it lingers ever so lightly but it has me tight in its jaws. Every now and then it gives me a good shake to remind me to continue on no matter the cost. Don't give in to anything it says because I never will.
I will find a way to one day ease the mandibles of pressure and when I do the whole world will know. But for now I breathe a little harder, think a little deeper, and smile through it all. I won't let it be my maker. Only I can be that.
Be strong. Work harder and work another way. Be resilient. Be a foundation for others to build upon. Be yourself. Fight damn it; fight through it until the wall is crumbling all around you. Then build anew. Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.
"Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit." - Bernard Williams
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