MY SIMPLE LIFE (3)

During this period of working backward I stumbled onto a concept that helped more than you’d think, minimalism.

No, I didn’t try to live with only a hundred possessions, or anything equally extreme, but although some parts of my life were gone, I still had all the accoutrements and still spent time cleaning and maintaining those things. Things I no longer had any use for.

As you may have guessed, when life suddenly and fundamentally takes an unexpected turn, confusion follows. This confusion is different from the ordinary confusion of being temporarily befuddled by a task or idea not immediately understood. It’s a howling beast with sharp claws constantly tearing apart concentration and sending trains of coherent thought into the abyss.

While wrestling with the ugly brute added distraction is the last thing you need. This is where minimalism shines. By disposing of possessions that had lost their purpose and value, I not only made space in my house, but space in my head as well.

That mental space was essential. It allowed me to view the beast from different angles and slowly begin finding ways to tame it.

The take away for me was the insight that owning something, regardless of what it is, is a commitment. I was committing time, energy, and resources to every single thing I owned at some level. When I looked at things from this perspective I found many that, rather than add value or joy to my life, did the exact opposite. They weren’t things I needed, but things I needed to be rid of.

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MY SIMPLE LIFE (2)

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.

 

MY SIMPLE LIFE (1)

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.

 

Mead Making

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.

SAM_0119

One

An ancient knowledge

a remnant truth

learned in the time

when Man was youth,

 

You are not, or ever were

alone

that feat, my friends

cannot be done,

 

Those tricks we use

to separate

are as dreams

and without weight,

 

These tricks

that cause us so much pain

are a vile poison

in our veins,

 

Leaving us lost, confused

depressed

souring our happiness,

 

We’ve told ourselves

they’re useful tools

but of what use

heart-broken fools?

 

There is not

an Us and Them

there never was

it’s never been,

 

There’s only We

and We are kin

to each and every

living thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remember Gratitude

It sometimes slips my mind,

when I think of commands my body can no longer obey,

to give thanks that there was a time it could.

In those quiet moments,

when beloved voices long silent whisper in memory,

to be mindful that countless shared moments created them.

In contemplation it seems a grave disservice,

to mourn things lost,

without remembering and rejoicing that they once were.

 

 

 

Tell Me, Knight

A serpent’s hiss from an oozing pestilent mouth,

” What weapon will you choose, when you come to challenge me in the dark?”.

“What armor will guard your soft organs from my jagged claws, my ripping fangs?”.

“Will the heft of the axe comfort your approach?”.

“Perhaps the keen bright edge of a well honed blade?”.

“Will you come with the stride of a gun’s weight on your waist?”.

“Tell me, Knight!”, the Thing gleefully, horridly cackled, certain of It’s victory.

The Warrior stepped from shadow with barefoot, silent tread.

No armor betrayed his approach.

No axe or long knife encumbered his hand to ring off the stone walls.

No gun unbalanced his gait on the rough ground.

Striking the small light he held in his left hand, he stood before the Thing.

“What madness is this? The thing spat, coiling in surprise.

Calmly, without anger the Warrior spoke.

“No madness, I’ve carried with me all I need.”,

“A heart without fear.”,

“A light to find the path.”,

“A glass to reflect the truth.”.

The polished glass in his right hand, raised aloft,

caught the Thing’s eye for but a heartbeat,

it was enough.