Earlier I intentionally glossed over a great many details. The mechanics of how I came to be a broken, incomplete person are relevant only to myself. Sharing them would only serve to make this one more sad story in an endless compilation of them, and that is not the point. My hope is that some part of this will strike a chord with someone at the right moment to be useful.
So then, who was I? As painful as the reassembly was, it paled compared to the empty space remaining and the bitter realization that I had no answer. Looking back, I’m not sure I ever had an answer. At least not one that meant anything.
I was just a guy going to work everyday, paying the bills, and raising my Son. No different from anyone else. I liked my job, but had no passion for it. Paid for the same things everybody else did, mindlessly never considering whether I needed those things or how they benefitted me. Raised my Son as I was raised, not once wondering if it could be done better.
So much of what I did everyday was “normal” that almost no room was left for individuality. A perfect example of this came when I had to tell my employer that I wouldn’t be able to return. On a personal level this was emotionally crushing. Adding insult to injury, my position was immediately, seamlessly filled by someone else. No muss, no fuss, thanks for your years of service.
I can hardly imagine a more thoroughly devaluing experience.
At a time when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I discovered I couldn’t even start formulating an answer to my question until I first worked backward to learn who I was not.
This blog has been a wonderful outlet for the random musings and unanticipated thought fragments that seem to perpetually traverse my mind. Through poetry I’ve found a method of examining and coping with emotional turmoil, that kept bottled up, eventually becomes rancid and toxic.
Without prattling on endlessly, I’ll share with you that several years ago I experienced a series of traumatic events severe enough to make rebuilding the life I had impossible.
Much of what I’d thought of as absolutely essential was irredeemable. At 44 years old I was faced with the terrifying prospect of finding a completely different way to live, something I wasn’t even certain was possible.
Being so fundamentally hurt, the first eighteen months were little more than a process of slow healing. I didn’t think about what came next during this time, because I wasn’t convinced there would be a next.
When I finally tried to pull myself together it was quickly apparent that too many pieces couldn’t be made to fit anymore. That was very sad since I’d had some of them most of my life, and didn’t want to see them go.
So, I was left with the question, who was I?…………………………………………………… (to be con’t)
Authors note: While I have no intention of abandoning poetry, I think it’s time to bring this blog more in alignment with it’s original mission statement, which is simply to help, and to do that it’s important to understand the circumstances of it’s creation.
The origins of the antiquated art of fermenting honey are lost in deep time. Where the first batch made it’s appearance, reported to be between 20,000 and 40,000 years ago, is a mystery buried in eons. Little chance exists that it will ever again be part of our living knowledge.
What remains to us, the process and practice of it’s making, forms a more direct connection to our history than any found among ancient texts. Consider that a brewer today may mistakenly ruin a batch in precisely the manner of a batch ruined 400 centuries ago. Difficult as it is for each to conceive the other’s existence, they are bound together by unbroken tradition.
With a history that can be measured in geologic time, it is right too that mead should derive from honey, the only food uncorrupted by passing years.
May Mabon bless the mead-makers of every age in turn, until the Cosmic day draws finally to it’s close.
I’d like to take a moment
and acknowledge the enormous success
achieved by those magnates of
modern industrial society.
The battle was by no means an easy one
opposed by truth at every turn
motivated by nothing more
than the desire for financial gain
What stunningly ingenious fabrications
cut from whole cloth
how reasonable their presentation
made them appear
Integrity, morality, ethics
on a golden altar
in the name of wealth
What glittering wonders
sold at exorbitant prices
you can afford to buy!
Still, with overflowing billfold
what coinage is required
for the washing away of stain
from a corrupt heart?
I chose herbal orange spice this morning with Rosehips, Orange peel, Hibiscus, Blackberry, Chicory, and Cloves.
*Remember to use a stainless steel pot and infuser. Never aluminum.
I’ve recently completed my Candidate year with the Ancient Order of Druids in America and been recognized as an Apprentice.
This took quite a bit of work and I’m pleased and proud to have accomplished it.