I don't often reference the title of this endeavor, but nevertheless the ouroboros bites me in the ass from time to time—if only to remind me that life moves in spiral.
From where I sat on my long lost high school English teacher's sofa Saturday morning, drinking mint tea with handmade honey and being vetted by a Siamese kitten named Sigmund, my world began to make sense again. I am not the wholly new invention I think myself every year. I do not restart from scratch each January the first. My selves are spun from the same center locus, no matter how many and manifold they become. And no matter how old I get, I am still the same doe-eyed kid who once stole for him the forsaken statue of St. Francis. There are no beginnings or endings, only cycles.
That said, things change. There may be no wrong way around the circle, but certainly there are sinkholes and wagon ruts to circumvent. There are changes to be made, though the thought of making them may rip your heart right out of your chest.
I have done something so selfish and so scary that I still cower at the thought. It was the right thing to do, but it stands a fighting chance of turning my heart to pulp and rendering it unfit for future use. And I don't know what to say now, really. Is it better to do as I have done? Choosing to hurt now for a little dignity down the road?
Or maybe I have just lost what hope I had left of happy endings.
From where I sat on my long lost high school English teacher's sofa Saturday morning, drinking mint tea with handmade honey and being vetted by a Siamese kitten named Sigmund, my world began to make sense again. I am not the wholly new invention I think myself every year. I do not restart from scratch each January the first. My selves are spun from the same center locus, no matter how many and manifold they become. And no matter how old I get, I am still the same doe-eyed kid who once stole for him the forsaken statue of St. Francis. There are no beginnings or endings, only cycles.
That said, things change. There may be no wrong way around the circle, but certainly there are sinkholes and wagon ruts to circumvent. There are changes to be made, though the thought of making them may rip your heart right out of your chest.
I have done something so selfish and so scary that I still cower at the thought. It was the right thing to do, but it stands a fighting chance of turning my heart to pulp and rendering it unfit for future use. And I don't know what to say now, really. Is it better to do as I have done? Choosing to hurt now for a little dignity down the road?
Or maybe I have just lost what hope I had left of happy endings.
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2 comments:
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There is always hope for happy endings.
"And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy."
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