Monday, July 4, 2011

Turning Back the Pages

Last week I was re-reading earlier journal entries and remembering the different times and moods I felt six months ago. There is an African proverb that says, "to know where we are going, we must know where we've come." These wise words hold true in my life, and it's times when I re-read old journal scribblings, letters, book margin notes, etc. that help give my current situation perspective. I find that where I've been (emotionally, physically, spiritually) does indeed actively prelude where I am in the present moment. The forthcoming passage is taken from my hardbound, black Moleskine  pages, dated 28 January of this year. When I perused the pages again last week, I found a comfort and familiarity in the sentiment and images evoked. Compared to when this entry was written, I am now in a more confirmed and positive heartspace, yet I still resonate with feelings from the dark of winter, and it's in this soul's knowing that I find links to all the pieces of my past and current identity.
...I am going to be okay. 
I am okay.
I may not know where I'll be in a year. I may not know who I will be mated to. I may not know what vocation will fill the lengths of my days, but I do know some things.
I know about sacredness.
I know what I need.
I need to hear the rush of water. The rush of a freight train. An evening walk in March. A midnight cigarette while looking up at stars and feeling so, so small. A piece of buttered and jammed toast. A strong cup of coffee from a friend's French press. Writing a letter to a far-away kindred. Stained glass windows in an old chapel. Flannel sheets. Down pillows. Scarves. Mother, father, brother, sisters whom I love and who love and hold me. The one poem that ignites the core of my being to flutter. The simple, but always calming repetition of G, D, C chords played by my clumsy fingers on a flea-market guitar. Finishing a clean, cool glass of water and feeling hydrated to the bone. The clink and light splash of whiskey in ice. The flow and line from a truly good pen.

Of all these things, and many more, I hold and find truth, beauty, life. I thank God for my deep and often restless spirit and that heritage of contemplation that finds me pondering the subtle and simple mysteries of existence.
I am blessed beyond belief.
And, as my wise (and Irish Catholic) Rosemary used to say, quoting our risen Lord and Saviour, "to whom much is given, much is expected."
I have been given so, so much.

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