Parenthood never ends but becomes an increasingly complex traverse, and ascension of effort and beauty reserved for only those determined to summit. Patriarchy and matriarchy are laid by at death, left to the effects of the effectual prayers prayed while we were on earth, and continue long after we have left here; those hallowed grounds we have sown.
Is life to good to be true? I often think this. “In solemn stillness,” I sit alone and often see “the world in solemn stillness lay” My window reveals “it came upon a midnight clear.” Day comes, night is softly laid away, and there it is. Life, conscious life of living here on earth, the bright blue Shangri-La of life, chosen of all the specks in the cosmos, “Let there be life,” and it has never been anything but too good to be untrue. God is good. God is great. Let us thank Him.
We are wrapping up our home build, all the main things in place, beds, refrigerator, easy furniture, silverware, cups, bowls, and plates. Now, the hardest part of all: the boxes of memories. Where to put 139 years (our combined ages) of boxed up memories. Some are momentos, some souvenirs, and some, those that mostly fill our boxes, are relics. These hold such vivid reminders of our life, when life reminded us how grand living could be. Consecrated events now held in objects of sacredness stored in cardboard boxes of the covenant, the covenant of, let there be life. Life is the most sacred of all, the time of being alive on this earth. It is easy to say the hereafter is the reality, and obviously, this is true. But living itself, as we only know it, is as sanctified an experience as we have, and in that having and being come sacred objects, that now confront my lover and me. Cardboard boxes…so many cardboard boxes, filled with venerated relics of the covenant of let there be our lives.
I have great longings in my life, longing for the new body I had years ago, for more time to see the earth and His glory in it, and a longing to personally renew the great friendships of my past.
One of my greatest longings is to sing. The miracle of pushing air from one's lungs between two pieces of vibrating meat, out through your shaped mouth, and it sounds like Elvis is a gift I long to have.
I see my longings as gifts because God has great longings as well. He longs for us to praise him. He has given us the means mentioned above, and then we write songs using symbols, and we sing. We all can sing, just some better than others. One of my other longings is that when I get to heaven, God will give me the ability to sing like Emmylou Harris or Johnny Cash, and as I often tell my lover, “I am gonna go around singing all the time!!”...even after I’ve been there 10,000 years.
 |
| Altar building in the Smoky Mountains. |
A mourning dove moans off in the woods, sorrowfully singing its plight. Nat King Cole plays softly on the piano. A few birds accompany him and begin to sing in notes divine. Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Day has come. Seeing night become day is as hopeful an act as the earth gives us. A new day is filled with a set of time, blank, waiting to be filled in. It is like an unedited one-man play. What will the play be: a comedy, a tragedy, a narrative love story, a drama, satirical, longing, documentary, or historical? All the above…in doses I hope I can handle or live up to.
 |
| Me and my dog. |
Last night, I sat in a circle of old people as the sun had moved on and turned the eternal west into shades of scarlet, orange, and purple. Old clouds, old star, old sky, old west, and much younger people. Truth is relative. Much of my youth I had cannoned into this circle, the unbroken circle of memories so deeply lived as to make them nearly sacred. The unbroken circle of youth. They are now my ancient of days, those days when we first realized we were alive, and lived in gusto and meaning, when our bodies were exquisite vessels of life and beauty, now scarred and worn, holding all those memories I had poured into them. Compassion and love are the drinks of God, mixed in vessels lived together, and I was draining mine to the dregs as I sat among these dear people, my ancient of days, those souls that now held so much of me in my memory form…and I held theirs, their memories of our ancient days Old Long Since.
In order for me to write, a practice I began when I was 14*, I must be living in a harmony of gratefulness and a quaking of the intensity of meaning of living. This can come in quite peace, overwhelming ecstasy, bitter sorrow, or grief, a fellowship of being in relationship with the Ancient of Days, the earth and cosmos, my lover, my memories, and other people.
It can also stop coming when I am in conflict, under stress based on circumstances, or suffering some great illness or pain.
I write every day. If I can’t, I try to discover why I can’t and try to write about that. This is why I am writing this.
 |
| * I began writing at 14 when I started watching the television show, The Waltons. The main character was John Boy Walton, and he wrote every evening sitting at his window. He wrote about his family and where he lived because he found great meaning in these. I thought I felt the same, and so I began to write. I have never stopped writing every day. |
