A Season of Life?s Perfection
I am now in the Autumn of my life, and still some things elude my grasp that I should have long ago mastered. Here I sit writing and it occurs to me that instead of here, I should be in a high building that is stacked with books I've read and books I've had published. Alas, the writing bug did not get me until late in life, after the fire has been carefully banked to keep it from going out entirely.
In a rare epiphany on this December night, I shudder with the realization that maybe I've waited too long; the muse being a thing for the young and active. Youth - being up to 35 - is a gift. The boon is one of constant change, laughter, energy, and the pursuit of the opposite sex. Such are the milk and meat of life, and I, being older have missed out because of chance or luck or fate. Call it what you will, I feel that I've missed the last train pulling out and will be caught standing here, my emotional baggage in hand as the empty tracks slide away in both directions.
An outlook such as this tends to make both melancholy and desire war in my breast, an ongoing battle betwixt life and death. For I want not only to give up and surrender to the inevitable, which is death, but also to wrestle the angel of life and pin him to the ground, forcing him to give me back the fire I once knew. The question is do I have the wherewithal to do so, or am I to be relegated to the dust bin of antiquity ?
For to go gently into that good night is not what I want. Moderation is for monks, not me. For I desire to take large bites of life, sucking the sweet juice out of it's fruit until it cascades down my chin.
How best to accomplish this daunting task; how best to approach it, is a matter for keen thought. Like a plan of battle, the details have to be meticulously worked out, and yet flexible enough to bend on the inevitable enacting of Murphy's Law. Who am I kidding anyway; the real question is am I strong and supple enough to bend when the winds of the World blow ill as they are wont to do ? It?s not exactly a soup question.
But to go to my grave with the knowledge that I lacked the simple courage to try
is a strong impetus. It grates against all my being to bow my head in defeat, to acknowledge that the ubiquitous ?They? have won the game and I must go down into the dugout and await my demise. No. I can't do that. I won't do that ! The World and it's trials and tribulations are not to be given in to. They must be fought constantly and unfailingly, with heart and courage if I am to win; if all of us are to climb out of the long darkness we have put ourselves in.
We think in terms of black and white. Winners, losers; pass or fail. Sometimes good and evil, when in truth we all are our own Demons. The truth will out, friends, and if you look deep enough into your heart you'll find a cruel beast. You?ll know it immediately in that it looks like you. It is the Shadow-Self that many mystics speak of and we of the West fail to recognize. The world we have built and are so proud of is a world made up of all our fears. We have built monuments to our own egos, clothed them in garments of gold and telling all that This is the glorious legacy of mankind.
It is a sham. The monuments are shades, illusions built on lies and cruelty of the basest kind. If we took the time to think, we'd recognize the illusions and deem them Shadows. Not the benevolent dim outlines of living things, mind you, but the inky darkness of the grave and the worms beneath. Yet I must be as Persephone and go down into that pit of despair, that dark foulness and return somehow.
To return is to be changed. One cannot enter the shadow realm and be unchanged by the experience. It is exactly that change which I must court if I, by my own actions, am to rise above the murky depths to which I have sunk. Not all of what has befallen me is entirely my fault alone; the world with it's strange twisted notions must share equally in the blame. Therein lies another lesson for another time. Be that as it may, I know in the tunnels of my fierce heart that I can do this and be the better for it. So, let the battle begin.
I take a deep breath, charge up the hill that is angled so as to assure defeat, and with faltering steps sound my barbaric Yawp over the field and plant my victory flag. My backpack is filled with memories of what I have done in the past, so I may remember past victories and take courage. My head is full of determination and dreams of a better way than what we currently have. In my left hand I carry a handful of rose seeds that is the new growth to be sown after the old growth has been cut away. My right hand holds a dagger, to be used as a last resort when my words fail me.
The combatants face each other. One is fear, a dreadful foe that turns blood to water. The other is despair, a malaise that if one gives in to it for an instant, one is forever defeated. I stand tall, take my stance, and charge headfirst into the fray. May fortune favor the foolish, for I am as trusting as the Fool. This is Saint Crispins Day and I will win out over my foes and gain back my life and my own power. Excelsior !!
