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.

 

Advertisements

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

Weight of days

When more days lie behind you

than those that wait ahead,

each one on it’s passing

leaves behind a weight,

 

It presses not upon the muscles

nor upon the bones,

This weight of days I write of

is borne upon the soul,

 

Moments grow to hours

hours become days,

No earthly scale I know of

tells the measure of their weight,

 

It equals not to bricks

cannot be matched in stone,

It’s value may be that of lead

or surpassing even gold,

 

It’s worth I cannot tell you

it is you who must decide,

it’s total sum reflected

in the wrinkle, scar, and line

 

 

 

 

Release

As the scales begin to tilt

and more days lie behind me

than those ahead

My thoughts wander

as they more often do

to those I’ve known and loved

whose names can no longer

be found in the book of life

I mourn the empty spaces they left

knowing those places will remain

dark and silent within me

I mourn my loss

Should I mourn theirs?

Their lost worry?

Their lost fear?

Their lost suffering?

Rather I rejoice

in their loss

in their release

 

 

 

 

 

Lost Children of Science

To the lost Children of science,

sequestered in sterile labs,

untouched by solar rays,

toiling to decode the nature of life,

Beyond Your high walls,

each tree, each flower,

intone pheromone answers,

to all Your many questions,

in their silent language,

offering truths deeper,

than any that can be contained,

within a spoken word.

Sowing

Kneeling in the damp soil

dirty fingers gently make holes

for seeds.

Across the road

a construction crew builds

many houses.

Like me they sweat

mud-spattered and muscle sore

from the labor.

Like me they believe

what they do is right, is good

they are not evil men.

They began their work

in a copse of trees which had to be removed

allowing space for building.

Mine began

on a small, sandy patch of ground

where sparse grass grew.

They cut trees

dug stumps

preparing the land.

I spread depths

of mulch and  compost

preparing the land.

From the high seats

of diesel excavators

they waved hello.

My bare feet

damp and connected to the earth

I smile and wave back.