Will I go seeking absolution,
dragged down by the shackles
of sin in my swollen belly, or
ship out soundlessly from my berth
into the eternal matrix
where sins are but a fleet of
rubber duckies?
nm 2014
Will I go seeking absolution,
dragged down by the shackles
of sin in my swollen belly, or
ship out soundlessly from my berth
into the eternal matrix
where sins are but a fleet of
rubber duckies?
nm 2014
I’m trying to re-connect with a book on dealing with grief over the loss of a spouse. It was upbeat in that it suggests the spouse does not have to say goodbye, but can carry the loving memories with them. If anyone can remember even the existence of this book it would be greatly appreciated.
Sorry I’ve been away so long–had a date with pneumonia for 5 days in the hospital.
Author Unknown
DEAR ANCESTOR
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone.
The name and date are chiseled out
On polished, marbled stone.
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn.
You did not know that I exist
You died ere I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
Entirely not our own.
Dear ancestor, the place you filled
One hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
Who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved.
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
And come to visit you.
Image: goldenhummingbird.com
Sure, time’s moving faster,
whitewater rafting between
treacherous shoals.
Slow it down, slow it down!
Time’s winged chariot
catches one’s breath. How
to gentle into a peaceful
landing…How best to live until we
drift into the long day’s end?
Positive feelings about aging
equal longer life, they say.
How shall we maintain that frame
of mind? For me, it’s Curiosity!
The mysteries will always remain.
Wonder and wondering will fill
my parachute and help it to
gentle me down to a soft landing.
(I punched the wrong button somewhere along the line and can’t post images any more. My screen says: (Technological message doesn’t print on blog, just Dashboard). If anyone knows what to do please advise. Back to this post: [Well, there you go. I don’t know what I’m doing in this technological world]. Welcome, image.
I committed the cardinal sin of using words without defining. In my earlier post on Shame and Guilt I referred to “narcissism” without defining it as “healthy narcissism,” or “self esteem.” Obviously (to me) that definition is permissible because if my primitive ancestors hadn’t cared about themselves above all else I won’t exist. We’re all the product of organisms who won over their neighbors. Pledging one’s life to helping others, unfortunately, can also function as a way to improve one’s self esteem or “puffing oneself up,” as I said in my original post.
The closest I’ve come to sniffing out unequivocable altruism (maybe) are the postings showing one kind of animal protecting another kind, or a seeing dog helping a blind one.
Ernest Becker is somewhat extreme in his attempt to tear down defenses which help us avoid seeing life as it really may be, with everything doomed to die.
Man does not seem able to “help” his selfishness; it seems to come from his animal nature…In man a working level of narcissism is inseparable from self-esteem, from a basic sense of self-worth….When you combine natural narcissism with the basic need for self esteem you create a creature who has to feel himself an object of primary value…The basic motivation for human behavior is our biological need to control our basic anxiety…To have emerged from nothing, to have a name, consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression–and with all this yet to die…We need to assure ourselves that we have achieved something of lasting worth…It doesn’t matter whether the cultural hero-system is frankly magical, religious and primitive or secular, scientific and civilized. It is still a mythical hero-system in which people serve in order to earn a feeling of primary value, of cosmic specialness, of ultimate usefulness to creation, of unshakable meaning…To become conscious, aware of what he is doing to earn his feelings of heroism is the main self-analytic problem of life.
“A person spends years coming into his own, developing his talent, his unique gifts, perfecting his discriminations about the world, broadening and sharpening his appetite, learning to bear the disappointments of life, becoming mature, seasoned–finally a unique creature in nature, standing with some dignity and nobility and transcending the animal condition; no longer driven, no longer a complete reflex, not stamped out of any mold. And as Andre Malraux wrote, the real tragedy is that that it takes sixty years of incredible suffering and effort to make such an individual, and then he is only good for dying”…He has to go the way of the grasshopper, even though it takes longer…. Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death, Simon and Schuster, Free Press Paperbacks, New York).
Now what does all that have to do with me? Let’s avoid the religious question if we may. I’ve said my head is atheistic and my heart is hopeful.
I’m becoming more and more convinced that my apologies and suffering over transgressions against others is a way to protect my self esteem. I’m working on abandoning that part of me and focussing on my “heroic journey,” of which I am aware. I seek to be a hero by creativity, my blogging, empathizing with others including my children, absorbing beauty and nature, feeding my hungry curiosity and giving free reign to my imagination.
What’s it like? Like nothing else.
I’m liquid, and by the way I am we, not me.
Not gotten use to it yet.
It’s kinda like I’m my own blood stream
–or, I mean we are. Life is everywhere,
and alive. We were like bumps, sticking
out of the stew. Now we are
interchangeable, if that makes any sense.
Shut your eyes and feel the force field?
We are it.
POEM
On the day that I die
will the world end or
just me?
If I write a poem
will it die with me
or will it stay on
and let the world know
that I was here
and wrote this poem
that outlived me?
And got the feeling that if I were looking at this image when I died I would surely die with a smile on my lips and peace in my heart. It’s like a glimpse into the truth, I guess, whatever that is, or like an emergent aspect of consciousness. This is coming from a Unitarian atheist…
HEART OF STONE
One day she wrote a poem
that ended, “Whose face did she
wish to see?”
She wrote that, and reading it
realized there was no face
that she longed to see. Her heart
had hardened into stone.
O she admired some folks
and pitied others, but the
bubbling warmth of the inner
fire had turned to stone and in
its place were traces of ashes.
It woke me. Maybe in the upstairs apartment? A muscle in my arm twitched. I recall snuggling with my old red blind deaf cat named “Lucky.”
goldfish looking out
rain patters against the pane
bradford pear leaf falls
Invisible lines associating ideas, creating images.
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