We all start out in the world, naked. A clean slate in which life dabs a pen and begins to write. It’s a unique experience being a part of life’s story. We all are in one big book that keeps going on and on. It doesn’t stop when I die, it gets carried on in a sequel with my children and their children, and the generations who come down the road. What makes our journey interesting is how we develop our character in the story. Are we the villain or the hero? Or do we just stand at the sideline and watch the story proceed without really making any worthwhile contribution? Should I re-read my story written by life, I hope I see some great chapters, some that make you cry and some that make you laugh. And some most special ones that just can’t be repeated in anybody else story.
I gave up on material things a long time ago. As I left behind the big city, the six figure salary, and headed to the mountains of North Georgia, I also gave up the burden of trying to accumulate material wealth. It really didn’t make me very happy. Now I have to admit that my soul battled with my physical self everyday at the beginning. It didn’t like the fact that I shopped at thrift stores (I call it recycled clothes) and that I took small jobs, like washing cars and reception work to make ends meet, but my physical self soon got into sync and realized that I had no more need for big cars, fancy jewelry, designer clothes and so forth. This desire soon faded, along with the memory of big city life.
This particular Monday morning I woke up and felt a rush of contentment at my life. As I kissed Henderson (my boyfriend) goodbye, I thought about all the wonderful things I have which doesn’t require money to buy. Our life here at the little yellow cabin in the mountains is simple ….and complete. I guess this reflection came from watching the movie “Larry Crowne” last night. For those of you who haven’t seen it, you should. It’s about regeneration in life, even when you’re middle-aged. I could relate to that movie, because that’s what happened to me and Henderson. (Although I believe Kev was there a lot sooner than I was.) I also related to the main character of the movie because he went back to college and re-invented himself. Being around the young people of Young Harris College opened my eyes to the fact that while I am in my late forties, age should not be a limiting factor to the things I wish to experience and accomplish. While my body may think it’s old, my mind disagrees.
While working at a wedding this past Saturday at Crane Creek Vineyards I saw this little boy down in the vineyards with his grandpa. It was dusk and the bright green of the grape vines had darken to an emerald shade with the setting sun. Lightening bugs were out, their small points of lights dancing around the rows of the plants, and here he was, arms thrust high in the air twirling around with them. It held my attention for a while, because he laughed and laughed, a burst from his heart. I smiled. Inside I knew how he felt, because that’s what I feel like doing here in our little piece of the woods. I just want to simply dance with the lightening bugs.
So this Monday morning, I give thanks for all the wonderful people I have in my life, for my two small little jobs which give me great enjoyment, for the ability to further my education, for my garden and my flowers, for the cars which work, for the shelter little yellow cabin gives us, for the ability to see and hear, and most importantly for the love from my children, my family and Kevin Henderson. I found heaven in the bliss of our simple life.
I am a writer. I write fantasy, sci-fi and horror. The Poetry Muse did not start speaking to me until about a couple of years ago when my ex-fiance left and the most wonderful man in the world entered my life. It was at this time, that my emotions wanted to speak, but not in story form. So I let it, and every now and again, the muse makes an appearance and some form of poetry escapes me.
This poem was written in Spring. I was waiting for my 1950s History class to start and then, all of a sudden, the words poured forth. Luckily I had my journal in my backpack. So here is this one:
Somewhere in between Self Pity and Happiness
The days have crept away, their life such frailness
taking with them to the setting sun, all the sorrows and wishes for what might have been.
Lying awake in the darkest hour, listening to the silence of night
what has happened to such precious time?
The hours spent in turmoil, thinking myself the unjust or persecuted.
When all which lay before me was the whimsical path of God.
Setting in motion a journey which took me
to somewhere between self-pity and happiness.
Should I choose to look back,
all I would see,
is the youthful charade of self-doubt.
It was always there, simmering underneath
and once the shell removed, its shadow lifted.
Laid bare, exposed and bright.
My happiness is self-made, and self-pity is its death.