Living in a New Year

As I wrote in my last post, life is about change, and a lot of that change is about rebirth. There’s no wonder why we celebrate New Year’s, it’s all about second chances, doing something different, amending wrongs, rectifying mistakes, apologies. All of which we never do, or very seldom manage to accomplish. The thing is, you can’t talk about second chances, doing things different or making amends without looking back over the course of your life, and wondering just how different your life could be if you had made different choices, done things just a bit different.

Maybe that’s why the Holiday is associated with drunkenness, revelry, and a whole bunch of insanity. We really wanna be better, we wanna be forgiving, we wanna do that change, but we’re just not capable of it. Sure, you’ll lose five pounds, celebrate, and then gain 25. You’ll continue though, to brag about that five pound loss till you realize people aint buying it anymore, even then, you’ll still try. Yep, you’ll forgive you coworker, apologize, make amends and by the first of February, realize he’s still an asshole, and you’ll regret that NYE whisky kiss, vowing it won’t happen again next year.

So you see, New Years Eve, it’s not about saying goodbye to the old and ringing in the new, it’s about who we are, better, who we wish we were, and since we’re not, and can never be, we might as well get drunk wishing we could be.

Makes perfect sense to me.

A Very Merry Thank You

Fundamentally, life is about change. So much so that when that experience is both muted and chaotic, and when both inhabit the same time and space, change is fundamentally transformative.

My mother has sold her home of many years and just moved in down the road. Once a two hour 2015 xmasdrive, mom is literally now a 5 minute drive. That move was a last minute decision, and a surprise. In addition, my son has transitioned from a group home to semi-independent living.

Both moves will have an immediate impact. My routine will change, that’ll probably bug me because I’m a routine sloth bug, lazy and predictable. Because of that, I might be somewhat dysfunctional, in that sometimes I can’t get shit done because it’s outside of my routine.

I can write that my entire family is a bit dysfunctional, but really it’s no more dysfunctional than yours, so lower the lid on your throne. See, with family comes responsibility. A time to drop whatever you’re doing, to help a parent, a brother, or sister. Dysfunctional arguments aside.

I’m deeply appreciative and thankful for my sister. Barb flew up from Tucson to help move my mom. She took control, got the job done and if you know my mom, that wasn’t easy. Of course, there’s a lot more to that story, but now’s not the time.

Sean’s transition has been a long one, a winding journey through a disjointed, strange forest. One that’s difficult to talk about in the sense that his future is always in flux. We learned that last January.

We’re lucky in a lot of meandering ways, lucky for Tabitha and Victoria, for their work and dedication in helping Sean get to this point in his life. And there are also a host of good people who have helped and supported Sean over the years, from staff at his group home to doctors I’ve never met.

Life is about change, it’s also about being appreciative of people in your life that help you wither through that change. In the midst of chaos, I was basically silent, lost, and it turns out I was lucky, there were people who made it all work.

For that, I’m especially thankful this holiday season.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Given

Given grace tsuntreehat I could  rest

my head along this road,

I would not.

 

Given chance to shed a tear

along this winding journey,

I would not.

 

Given a moment to ponder

along this meandering path,

I would not
.

 

Given the will to pause

along my way

I would not.

 

For upon trails end,

I will rest, I will cry,

ponder and live again.

 

Given grace to question

while I sojurn,

I would ask,

ask of whom?

 

For in all my steps

not one for me,

each for another,

even one for thee.

 

In my travels

I have found

there never comes

that time to be

 

Yet comes a time

before me now

where all such things

that come and go

 

Cry out to rest, to pause,

to ponder.

 

So upon a stone

aside a road,

a well traveled path,

my soul does set

eternally waiting

for death’s sunset.

 

Anna Provoda

IMG_4471With infinite heart and boundless soul, I love the spring and I shall never be accorded such to love so full again. If there in truth exists a God, he has given no mercy, answered no prayer nor soothed this tortured angel. In all his countenance, I alone am lost. But it is not God I blame, for how could God understand the depth of my heart when I allowed my love to blossom beyond immortal comprehension. Here lies then, the truth, I am alone to blame.

Only in the throes of Juliet’s passion have others known what I have known. That to find along one’s path a fallen star, brings only tragedy multiplied by a thousand courses of a thousand each, to those who stop to dally with that which does not belong aside the road.

Yet I gladly suffer the obscene. A thousand, thousand lesser loves I would again sacrifice for the greater love and coming loss. No love in all of human nature equals the forbidden sensitivity of my breast, the lightness of my thoughts nor enables flight of my soul.

In regards, I have but two sentiments. The first is of little consequence yet like a wasp, the danger flirts. Will it be that I shall be obliged to Hell for my love and all that is yet to arrive. Will it be that which I suffer through now, shall pale when set aside the dutiful agony of Satan’s domain. No matter the involved danger, grant me but one thought, a fleeting second among that demons rule every now and then, and I shall bear the pain. Perhaps with little ease, but I shall bear it. And if there is to be not that single thought, if that even is denied my soul, than it matters not for I truly have died. In this, I have no say, so the consequence is small and I care less, for their punishment is of no avail other than for amusement. My very soul will have ceased.


Yet I entertain the devil in a fashion that all this was his doing. That he, knowing the finality, gave us each other. If true, what could I ask of God? What guidance would he have advised, for surely any consul would be far to late.

In this matter, the truth I know is this, my concern is small. These are things beyond my life. In them, you will find no handiwork of my own design.

Of a higher regard, one which questions my every thought, I only ask that those who have carried the weight of traveling this far, judge me with compassion. It is you who will give my life worth, you who must judge and supply innocent or guilt. Indeed, you must do so! This is my foundation for worth. To what corners of clouded thought I go, is of little value. In your condemnations or your applause, will I live. If only you were able to sample a portion of how I loved, your conscription of my life into history would be gentle. I think not so. Rather, I believe your verdicts will be swift and cold, like a stone over which cold water flows. Would I myself, do less?IMG_4483

In all these musings, do you find a voice of regret? I wish you interpret not one solitaire word as such. I say it now clearly, I regret only my loss. My heart carries no misgivings to my actions yesterday or those to arrive with the morning sun. Nor am laden with sorrow in how I am to be judged.

With each fleeting second, my strength follows behind, wagging it’s tail. Time is no longer of essence. I have said what must be done. That which remains is nothing more than a canvass to diddle, to scrawl as a child when bored. Surely, the night remains even in the complexities of this morning light.

I fight for words, thoughts are slow, wandering in bits and pieces. One simple thought no longer part of the whole.

I returned to the beginning and my thoughts on that cool winter day bring pleasure. Not because of what my words say, much more so as to what they do not talk of. How could I have known then of the happiness which would follow?

Pleasure flies in the window and lites like a butterfly. The joy exists not only in the event, perhaps more in the memory.