Where we are born is not who we are But it shapes who we become. Whether we embrace or attempt to escape - there is no undoing the circumstance of birth. We are plopped on this earth, exactly where we are supposed to land - in order for us to become, who we are meant to be. The reality of location and the fantasy of aspiration.
It takes courage to self-examine - and strength to face when we were wrong. This should not be a foreign feeling - it should be our every day norm. So much of life is running, and we never take a step. Over-stimulate, stupefy, whatever it takes, NOT TO FEEL. But victory can be found when we sit very still and hold a mirror to our faces Self-reflection leads to self-realization and to freedom of self.
What will you give Him? What is the thing you love most in this world? What is the object, the person, the corporation, the "thing?" That thing, that MacGuffin, that is the last thing you have to lay down. It should be the first, but, it is usually the last. Why that thing, you ask? Because it is the last, the very last barrier between your heart and His. What has He ever given you, you ask? He has given you Everything - He has given you Jesus. He has given you Himself. The least we can do in return - the very least, is give Him all of us....every last morsel. Even that bit we've been holding back, saying - "Yes - you can have it all... except "This."" "This"... is exactly the last of the currency. But fear not, for the rate of exchange is priceless. You give Him the very last piece of your human heart, and He gives you Eternity.
Why do take up our proverbial pen and write? Why do we take the time and make the effort to share our thoughts and feelings and lessons learned? Perhaps for the same reasons that generations before us did. We are compelled. Words spill out of us and onto the page, liquid puddles of letters that become words that turn into sentences that form complex thoughts and emotions, that leap from the page and into the mind of our reader who is perhaps contemporary, perhaps generations ahead of us, but who all say, "I understand what you mean." Writing is a form of time travel. A message from one kindred spirit to another. Between the lines we say, "I've been here before, just as you are here now. I survived, and so shall you." And our recipient, who may not yet even be born, closes their eyes and sighs, reassured that life will go on. And that, I think, is why we write.
When one sets about to rewrite
history, the BIGGEST and best piece of advice I can share.... is make sure you DON'T send the new drafts to those who lived the events with you. It makes for some very awkward glances. Thumbing through my poetry journal, this was written exactly one year ago today. A lot of my early work was much more focused on anger and hurt, and was written without editing. It was just whatever I thought in the moment and put on the page, then closed when the thought stopped. I'm pleased to share that this particular method of coping has helped me so, so much. Obviously, none of these "poems" rhyme, they are just words arranged on a page in an artistic manner...to help me think through and take what I feel and bring it out of me, and onto the page. I never imagined that they would even be intelligible, and I certainly never thought I'd share them, but I've seen a real growth, and I think it's important to share, especially if someone else decides to try it, and it helps them too.
Every time someone passes away, no matter what the circumstances, there are people left mourning. A celebrity brings joy to millions, and so, that loss is felt by millions. A woman from a small town may not have affected as many on a global scale, but her loss is just as deeply felt by those who loved her.
Earlier this month, Vicky Wise, a beautiful beacon of my community, passed on after a six year battle with cancer. And today, I, along with most of the world, was shocked at the loss of comedian Robin Williams.
Two very different people who faced their final days in very different ways. One was in tremendous physical pain, while the other was in tremendous emotional pain. Vicky was surrounded by loved ones in her final moments, while Robin, presumably, was alone.