Trading Time for Time

 I haven't been here for a while...Life, it happens to us all.

  We are all time traders of one kind or another. I realized this fact while writing all the words that have come before this post. It was a wonderfully flawed, strong soul who started me on this journey and it is he who has continued teaching me still- even as he is years now gone from us.

  I sat in a room for weeks that seemed like months- at other times as -minutes with that soul in his last times on this Earth within the confines of a body that ultimately failed him, as all of ours will. I was there only as a supporting role. I was an in-law, an out-law, one of many that were in attendance.

  I had no pent up hurts or slights held as if treasures tightly to my breast, no unresolved issues with this man who could no longer make amends. I had known him when, in those waning years, he had too much time and so he traded it for sorrows. That painful place where memories are open wounds that never truly heal. We had held hands as he cried over his own falsehoods, his short temper and long grudges. Ashes all.

  I listened as he poured out his failures, the ones that haunted him. This was a strong man, a force in all things. I sat while he bowed his head to hide his tears. I myself am strong in my own way, I too have held firm, but there is nothing in this life that prepared me for it- when a mighty one became humbled, sorrowful of his own nature and completely...filled with regret for his own sureties which he later realized were in error. He could name off dozens, they took up his hours and gave him nothing worthy in return.

  I cannot speak for the others who shared that soul's last days. I would never presume to. As for myself, he gave me a gift it would take me years to fully discover and though it cannot be insured or measured, it is the most treasured thing I own, and I do own it.

 Recently, I was honored to be included in a small private gathering, in the company of souls who were heading down that same path as had been traveled with that other man. Again, it was another Patriarch, one who had been massive in his presence and now his body had been abandoned by his knowing mind. Leaving his own family to become time traders.

  We all do it, we look back over things, some good -others not, to do so we must give up the present. We are linear on this plane. We are free to thumb through our past, we can linger over hurts or joys all that we choose to, for a price. Time is still going forward, whether we wish it to or not. Choose well.

  The day will come when our hourglass simply will no longer turn for us. Where ever we have chosen to allow our thoughts to meander, whatever time we have traded, will be etched in stone with a name and a date. We will be carried forward through others who will be trading their own hours in our memory. Be worthy.

 The cavern between that first great man and some who loved him was never transversed. It was not to be. I saw the pain it caused, but I could do nothing. He could not lay down his shield and they saw no choice but to leave with one more strike from a dying man who never laid the blow. Let it go.

  There is a great honor, a spiritual renewing, in helping another being in the twilight hours, when they are neither child nor adult, but a new being too heavy to carry and to helpless to leave. We must learn to see them for what they are and also to understand that this is a natural progression, one that we all must go through, not in regret for the ravages of disease or the rages of discourse but as a step toward something more. Have hope.

 It is a new kind of time trading. There is something healing in these precious moments of caring for one who can no longer do for themselves. Be open.

 Grace is found in these times, if we choose to acknowledge it. Hands that once wielded great power at last tremble without control. Eyes once judgmental, all knowing, are lost to things unseen. It may be too late for the apologies we all feel we are entitled to, the endearments we did not receive, kind words withheld, but we can free those very things from our own moorings. In holding those once capable hands, let go of any slights. Give your time and you will gain doubly.

  It is a very easy thing to say, but they do not know me, they do not recognize me and to walk away,  with no more resolutions gained. It misses the point. It is no longer about "them", it is about us, me, you. It is about watching over the watcher and comforting the once mighty. It heals us.

  In nurturing our those in our present we can release the bitter past. It does not mean that the suffering was less than or that you are giving in. It takes the greatest strength, when finally finding oneself with the whip in hand and deciding to let it drop. Righteous indignation is never right. It is a thinly veiled attempt to excuse one-selve's own behavior by laying the blame with another.

  I believe that God is within us all. We see this most clearly in the very young and again in the oldest among us. They are not our burden, they are our salvation. There is no greater trade of time than one that blesses both the giver and the receiver and by lovingly caring for one who has done you harm, as we all will do, you free yourself. Be Free.

  I send you love and as always, hope. Live in grace given and it will be received. This is your life. Bad things are going to happen. Live anyway. Love hard and hold fast. We all trade time. Trade wisely.

   I am asked many times how can I forgive, because I wish to be free. Because it is a gift I ask for everyday and I will never get what I refuse to give. Because I want to be more than a set of stories, blog posts and news clippings. Because I am trading time for time and it is good.

With great love to SP, DSP, JD, CM

The Salt and the Sweet

I am sitting here, either too early in the morning or too late at night, my cheeks aching from smiling too much...if there is such a thing. There have been many changes in my life in the last year, some painful and others wondrous. This latest one is by far, both the most surprising and rewarding. I really do not remember when I first noticed it. That thrill you get when something special happens, be it a unexpected, yet appreciated compliment or maybe an much treasured gift. Only, now it is not about things that happen to me, or for me, rather it is the sheer joy I feel in watching someone else fulfill their dreams. I have had the honor of witnessing several wonderful souls reach their goals of late and it is a glorious thing.

 I know that two years ago, or so, I would have been "happy as I could be for them", but I would be secretly comparing my life, my goals to theirs. I would be looking for ways to discount the value of their efforts in order to appease my own feeble ego. I no longer do that. I read a quote a bit ago and it really touched me. It convicted me and I could not deny my own image when I saw it reflected within the adage: "Your light will never shine brighter by blowing out another's." Oh, well...there I was...right there...Well I mean, I have vacationed in denial before, but somethings you just have to own.

  So, instead of seeing the place where the needle may have slipped, where the craftsmanship could have been slightly improved, I celebrated the confirmation of the possible. The beauty in the creation. If someone else could do it, then it could be done. If it could be done, then I could do it. And in the mean time, how cool was it that someone I had watched pour themselves out, struggle and stretch to grow into what they would need to be to achieve their goals, reached them.
I had the freedom of no excuses. Of owning my place and the power to change it. How amazing is that?

 My soul is made happiest now by doing things for other people. Whether it is a big thing or a small one, and it matters not, if they ever know I did it. It is the simple act of giving, of serving from one soul to another. I am in love.

  That is exactly what this is. I am hopelessly and unabashedly in love with the lightness and joy my soul feels when I let go of myself and concentrate on someone else. It is the most marvelous thing. It is a delirious, drunken, headiness that I can only compare to seeing my children's beautiful faces for the very first time. It is something spiritual. Something my soul is doing of it's own accord. I hope that you are well. Life is hard, bad things are going to happen. Hang in there, because there will always be good, if you cannot find it, be it. It is life's salt and sweet. And I try to always, always, remind myself, when given the choice, be kind. I have never regretted being kind. 

Silence

 In every circumstance there is a lesson. I find myself often asking no one in particular, why? And on most occasions of late, the answer has been the same. Silence.  Whoever it was that stated silence is golden, lied. Silence is a sharp knife on tender flesh. It is an endless, aching quest unfulfilled. A hunger unquenchable, a void too great to be breached.

  It is pain and sorrow too great to be spoken. Silence is a weapon cruelly turned on a beloveds soul.
It is an echo unanswered. A careless, wanton heart with a fickle beating. Muffled, intentionally, quieted to inflict a demon's desires on freshly formed love. A forced kiss from dry lips. Dust laid thick on words of adore.

 Silence is a mourning of all things lost. A sentinel, ever guarding dark things. It carries more grief than tears can measure. It will awaken you from the deepest of sleeps to bid you listen, forever listen. Waiting for a message that will not come. It demands your attention but gives nothing in return.

I have tried to parse it out...the what and the how of it. I plot out waypoints, looking for a star, some far off light to show where I have gone astray. I make attempts to understand, to give atonement, appeasement to this stranger who has taken up residence without invitation.

  Silence is not moved. It will be neither coddled nor bullied.  Eviction notices pile up at its door and still it persists. Accusing in its attitude, as if I were somehow the interloper. I can reason out any puzzle, pairing up things in their proper order, but I do not understand silence's game. I search endlessly through tomes and words left by those far wiser than I can ever hope to be. Yet I come away with nothing..

 There is no place named silence on any map that I have found. Rest assured, I have looked, in hopes of finding its secrets. What is to sit in this place so empty? Is it something I have lost? Was it never really there? Endlessly my fevered mind cries out for the why.

  Silence will not be banished by a crowd. No, it will sit patiently at your shoulder biding its time.
For silence is not ruled by any clock or timetable. Its schedule is its own and it will not be swayed from its coarse. You may put it off for a scant hour or two. Silence smiles slyly, nodding to itself secure in its knowledge that it will linger long after your last visitor has gone.


 Silence is its own cruel master and its demands are high. Silence has weight and measure, can be felt yet goes unseen. It slips in and out of a room at will.

  So, here I sit with my jagged edges that will not stay in place and a reckless heart too loyal for its own good and I wait. Silence and I will keep house until its purpose is clear. I am adept at waiting it is my strong suit and so I wrap myself in this cloak of nothingness and give my companion its due.

 Finally it whispers, a soft sound of a voice unused to it's own tone. "Be still and know", not every lesson is meant for me. I am merely a witness, a small bump on a long road that someone else is traveling. In this I find great comfort. Silence also holds grace and I am thankful

Sloth

The Smallest Bird is Sloth.   While the others vied for power , Sloth could not be bothered.  He refused to grow in stature,  instead he honed his energy on escaping the carrion's glower.  In fact so tiny was his form  and so easily was he missed  he neither flew on his own wing  nor hunted his own grist.   He kept himself perfectly still  until the watcher's eye grew bored,   then slowly ever so  he would latch onto another  bird and ride as if a lord.  He was a trickster of another sort  using no slight of hand  It was by doing the very least that he took grew to take command. The toll of this was very high   and of course it brought him low .  He had no choice as to what he ate   nor where he chose to go . Too weak to hold himself aloft he was sure to someday tumble.  His body was too soft, his achievements too humble.

                                                     

Philip Seymour Hoffman Has Died

   Philip Seymour Hoffman has died. We have all lost more than can be put into words. He was quietly, elegantly, perfect at his craft. So much so, that we forgot it was an act, a character and not the man himself. I first saw his brilliance as Freddie Miles, in The Talented Mr. Ripley and he made the movie.  I can see him so clearly all these years later, understated, powerful, dressing down Matt Damon with a glance and a few careful words. There was something in his presence, he was more aware then the others. You would lean in to hear him speak. He had a way of delivering a line that let you know he knew things, secrets, the names of the demons that plague us all.

   As with any great gift comes equal parts sorrow. All genius must be fed on suffering, and Mr. Hoffman was not spared. You need never have had to see an interview he sat for, or talked to him in person, it was written in the set of his face. It was in his eyes when he played the role of the questionable Father Brendan Flynn, in Doubt. He had  easily access to a reservoir of pain to draw upon. And he drank it in huge gulps, so that we could all believe in whatever story he was telling us at the time.

  Philip Seymour Hoffman has died. He cannot be revived or replaced. He has left us, abandoned, alone. His talent came at a high price, too high. Do not allow anyone to drag his name or reputation low because of the circumstances of his passing. Mr. Hoffman knew the names of so many demons because he lived with them. We only caught a flash, a small glint of their shadows, however he faced them straight on and they set their teeth upon him, one needle prick at a time. Their jaws became unhinged to take in more of him and leaving him less. Emptied at last.

  For those who cannot find mercy, stop looking for fault. It is no treasure, and it buys nothing of value. No one has lost more, or suffered as much, as Mr. Hoffman himself.  Please see it for what it was, this was a theft. He lost all of his tomorrows, his hope, everything that he could have been and done. Gone.

  Philip Seymour Hoffman has died, and with him, so has his demons. It was a brutal and valiant battle, in the end it was a draw. They took his life and he took his leave.

 

The Struggle

The Struggle

There will be hard times.
Bad things are going to happen.
Keep going

Acknowledge the struggle
face it squarely
and plot its demise.
Find its weaknesses,
instead of your own.

Struggle brings Worry
an uninvited guest
do not be hospitable.
set no place for
worry at your table.
Give it neither your
words or your tears.
Leave it to starve.
Worry well fed is
Depression unchecked.

Struggle is meant to refine
do not let it define you.
Struggle is a gift.
It is a lesson to learn.
A taskmaster
Know your part.

Struggle comes to teach you
that which you do not wish to
learn, but what you must to
be complete.

Struggle is the answered
siren's call your soul sent out.
It is a dealmaker asking
"what will you give me
in trade?"
Barter well.

There will be hard times.
Bad things are going to happen.
Keep going.

Envy

Envy

The birds were seven in number.

A flock of black ink blotting out the light.
First was always Envy, an evil little beast.
Surveying all with cold dead eyes.
Measuring out who had what, and more importantly how she intended to take it.
Her days were spent on memories of what she had been made to live without.
Having been neither graced with beauty nor any great talent to set her apart, she settled on becoming the very best at being the very worst.

A younger bird might have cawed at the unfairness of the world. Crying out for someone, anyone to right the accounts.

Not Envy.

Envy is her own bookkeeper. A ledger maker, with withered heart.
Thrusting her head first one direction and then another. Endlessly scheming on what to embezzle.
What must she have? Envy will swoop into your window the crown of friendship on her head. Beware, her attachment to you will become obsessive, plying to win your adoration.
Be careful, be quick. If you must find a place at your hearth for Envy, place her in the liar's chair.
It is the only honest thing to be done.

She will claw at your back while she curries favor with your love.
Hoarding your belongings, let her go.
Nothing she can take from you is worth mourning over.
No matter what bauble she gathers, it will never be enough.
She sits in her nest crowing her victories.
The things she has stolen. The hurt she has caused.
The power she wields in the expanse of her wing.

Envy is a hateful, foolish creature.

A cousin to jealousy, though her robes are colored carbon, not emerald.
She is ever her first victim. With each sin committed, age falters.
Feathers scattered in the wind. They fall from her molted form.
Leaving patches of bald, pinkish, puckered flesh.
Bleeding wounds where once there was ebony plumage.

Envy is a liar, a thief, a petty discount version of what she was meant to be.
She is a promise lost. So intent was she on keeping others from the sky, she forgot that she too could have flown free.
Envy believes herself clever, she is not. She is merely a wicked being whose soul has been forsaken.

The first bird to fall is always Envy. She has not the heart, nor the strength to survive on her own. Having spent her days in thievery and vice she has no reserves of hope nor love. Weep for her as she lifts from her throne of
lies. See her off one last time. Close up your house and your heart.

Envy is death on pinion spread out to cast shadows on the living.
She has no power unless you allow her yours.