Sometimes a dream dies. Something you may have held on to, believed possible for as long as you have memory. Age may decrease this distance. I wonder if this is an act of kindness.
Our body’s seem to pitch in too. Our vision fogs, a tender erasure of the imperfections of aging — everyone still looks wonderful.
What an experience this life.
I suspect I am one of many who looks for and sometimes finds clarity and support and assurance that the path I’m on is life as it should be. Poorly phrased, this. Best I can do at the moment.
Lately I’ve read some of Danish Philosopher Søren Kierkegaard’s work. A couple of salient lines reflect some tenets in my state of mind, all to the fore now given my current life experience (going back on stage): “Personality is only ripe when a man has made the truth his own,” and, “Be that self which one truly is.”
Both guidances underscore the fierce allegiance one must have to honesty. Honesty with self. Honesty about one’s being. The unflinching or flinching capacity to accept the reality you’re in. Flinching is okay as long as you reach acceptance. Trust me; I’m a flincher from way back.
We are each our own “weather condition,” never still, always moving, always changing. Our planet, our armature, is our being. Any quest to move through our “weather conditions”absent pain, sadness, fear, confusion and so on, is doomed. It’s simply not possible. Those “weather conditions” along with delicious ones like love, joy, laughter, wonder, ecstasy, and so on are all part of life – and that’s okay. It’s as it should be. The sooner one recognizes one’s very being is (unless one seeks confirmation of one’s worth in the “weather conditions” of others) is the fountain of self, the freer we are to live, to be. And was not Oscar Wilde right when he said, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken?”
Far too many of us, me too for a time, rely on the “weather conditions” of others for our sense of value and worth. That’s like leaning on smoke and hoping not to fall.
Don’t fall. Be.
There was almost a gentleness to knowing the balance of his life had come down to nothing but the words he wrote on a page. Nothing, more or less, save, of course, for the blessedly endless supply of books to read. Such was his love of reading that he knew, in the end, if he was aware of its arrival, a deep ache-sadness at not having read all he’d wanted to read would be present.
Not sad, so much, this truth. So many around him seemingly spinning in place or out of control (held up to the light at the right angle this could indeed be redundant) in their misery. The chase for the material, gullible minds digesting to the point of blind and foolish faith that wealth meant joy and happiness. In short, pipe dreams.
Leaning back in his chair with a cup of tea, a brief and admittedly cursory self-examination led him to conclude he was free of pipe dreams.
No more pipe dreams. Reality for me, he thought.