“My Heart Is Afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy told the alchemist one night as they looked up at the moonless sky. “Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams."

~Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

It’s the last day of May, and I believe the clouds are wringing out the last of their moisture, dripping it carelessly across this normally dry land. They say that even with the continuous rain for what must have been forever (actually, less than a week), the month of May has been dryer than normal. Funny how what seems impossible can be real.

There are only two days of school remaining for our seniors. That seems impossible. A week left of this college term for me, and my last paper completed today. I never thought I’d finish. My youngest turned 19 last month, my oldest 21 on Friday; just yesterday they were babies, I swear. How could they have grown into such fine young men so quickly? I didn’t take my eyes off of them for a minute… or at least I tried not to.

A good friend is saying goodbye. At this moment my heart is like the boy’s, fearing the pain that is sure to come with parting. Perhaps the Alchemist is right, that the fear is worse than the suffering. But what if shelter is only found in the pursuit of dreams? Ok, so I guess I also have dreams, but the sweetest ones are of the one who is leaving. Maybe it's time to focus on solitary dreams. Man, it feels like I’ve been doing that forever…

So if all this is illusion, perhaps there is no real parting anyway. No separation. I can find a little comfort there, but not much. One day my soul whispered softly, “ah… my friend, there you are…I've been looking everywhere for you.”. Maybe there will be another reunion in this life. Or maybe the separation really is just an illusion. Yeah, funny how the impossible can be real.

Friends...

Life is surprising; sprinkling brief glimpses of humanity here and there, in the course of a simple day. I guess that’s a lesson for living in the moment – that it’s impossible to accurately plan ahead, knowing these tiny gifts of the unexpected will arise in spite of the plan. And for the same reason, to resist the urge to gaze into the past, reflecting on happiness that has come and gone. Everything in its own time. All as it should be. These truths are difficult to accept when the night is lonely, or the load is heavy, or the road is long… or a love is forsaken… yet, they are truths which can offer stability to an accepting heart, one which is then free to delight in the experience of the beautiful miracles of each moment.

What about failed love, then? How can one simply extinguish a feeling, one which is so easy to experience, and so all-consuming? Perhaps that is part of the acceptance, to embrace unrequited love as it is, without clinging, or attempts to alter – but with a simple and compassionate acknowledgement of the presence of love, and the strength to move through each breath, sharing all moments with an intimate ghost.

We need not fear that our love will die. Daily we are given opportunities to practice compassion and empathy. These are the cornerstones of an honest love. They steady the foundation for all future opportunities. The warming fires of compassion and empathy burn gently, waiting for the time when love’s light will be kindled by their simple flame, its embers cradled eternally in their warmth. Everything in its time… All as it should be…

Silent

I sit cross-legged on the couch, in quiet contemplation of this work before me. A few feet away, across the carpet, and also silent, sits my old guitar. Once it belonged to my Dad, but it has been mine for many years. For a while it was my steady companion, but we don’t get together much anymore. It sits there, a few feet away waiting, while I sit here, cross-legged on the couch doing homework. One shouldn’t still be doing homework at age 40…. It’s been a journey of 3 1/2 endless years now - a long, lonely road, this college thing. At first, there was still time for that old guitar, but it’s been a while now, and I miss it. I keep promising that I will make time, but there is so much that must be done. This must be what the last leg of a marathon feels like.

The guitar itself is simple, honey-colored with some wear on the neck where many chords have been fingered. The strings need to be replaced, but since it has been silent for so long, there is no hurry. The nut should be replaced too, having been patched back together once. And I’d like to get electric pickups, if I ever get the time to play again.
The case it waits in is ragged. It’s cracked in places, with a hinge missing here and there. And it’s dusty. I should at least dust it off. One thing has changed since dad had it; there are 19 fairly progressive, rather opinionated, sorta rebellious stickers plastered all over the front of the old black case. Dad hasn’t seen that yet, and I’m not sure what he’ll say.
I’m 40 years old, why does it matter what he says?
It’s my instrument now, my voice is my own.
Why do I leave it silent?




I can’t get through the reading without choking up. Breathless… fearful of being seen and fearful of being misunderstood, trying to hold it back, and failing at every word.

What is this fear of not being understood? This is the 3rd time in as many months that I’ve faced that realization. The first time is in the midst of a conversation, when I’m feeling completely devastated at the thought that I might not be understood by someone, or worse yet - misinterpreted. The second time was during a songwriter’s workshop for kids; when taking turns talking about what we fear when performing, I said that my fear was that people “wouldn’t get it”… would misunderstand what I was trying to communicate. It knocked the wind out of me, that “ah-ha” or rather “oh-my-god” moment when I realized that this was a common thread running through the fabric of my tattered mind. And here again, in writing class, this thread is laid bare…

And in my life I find myself silenced by the fear of miscommunicating my thoughts. So many things I should have said when I saw him. So many things came to mind, and I held them back rather than risk misinterpretation, yet again. Yet, I know better than to let that happen… to let a day go by without letting one so precious know my feelings… often there is not another chance to say the things we should say, to those we love. Communication is risky, but it’s a risk that should be taken. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Breathing the air. Walking in the rain, or even in the sun. Life is about risks, I guess. Even if it hurts at times… Pain is part of the fabric of life. The secret - I forget sometimes - is to “wait with it”… observe the emotion, without fear, without struggle. “Joyful participation in the sorrow of the world” a wise man said…

theme? what theme?

Writing class is exhausting. Emotionally exhausting. Liberating, exposing, unearthing, and unnerving... draining. Wow.

In selecting an object to write about, I chose carefully, hoping to avoid the emotional torrent which overtook me at the first reading of even a tiny piece of my work. It seems instead that even a deeply buried, tiny piece of my heart is sharply sensitive to the light. Can't the callouses protect me? It used to work that way. So much to say, so much I'd rather not say. As I work through the seemingly benign assignments, ever wary of exposed nerves and thinking that I'm avoiding contact, I find myself instead faced with a steadily rising, slowly surging flood of tears. A helpless feeling, as if the toilet didn't quite flush, but instead regurgitated its contents back upward, creeping towards the rim, almost in slow motion - but not as slow as my reaction, reaching for the plunger, breathless, fearful of what's coming, yet unable to stop the flow of tears... or shit.

Better than math...

So here I am, unsure for the most part of what I'm getting myself into, but I'll admit - also a little eager to see where this path may go. Yes, there is homework that should be done, and housework that hasn't been done in far too long. There will be time for that... for now, I am exploring.

Memorial Day. Not much to say this year, more sadness as young lives continue to be lost for a cause not worthy of their sacrifice. Yet, if we can get beyond the politics and the argument against this war, we still must honor the human lives lost because of it. I can't call it a celebration, though. That would be asking too much. A hell of a day to start a new adventure.

So much moving around in my head, as I sit searching for words which might communicate my thoughts without leaking out the secrets of my heart. Ouch. That may be hard to do. Perhaps it is a lesson in waiting and watching for what may come of its own. But what keeps surfacing is more than I am willing to admit, certainly more than I'm willing to publish. Maybe beginning is enough for one day...