Ride the Wind, Swim the Rain

It's raining. Slow, soaking rain. It is seeping into the ground, moistening the earth, nourishing the trees. The wind brought the rain. Gusty, whipping wind. It whirled around the trees, causing them to whisper, causing them to sing. I only caught glimmers of the song, a note here, a melody line there. Occasionally, I even heard harmony. The rain makes its own music. Steady and complete. I hear it easier than the wind, but both combine and raise a symphony.

Why have we forgotten the music? Why can't we hear Creation resounding in her earthy, yet celestial tones? Why do our voices rise as dissonance into the music, causing discord rather than harmony? Because we are hurt. We are broken. We are blinded by our selves. What sad creatures we humans are! We cannot even see the beauty laying right in front of us!

Yet, this blindness has been the rule rather than the exception for years of our existence. Since Adam and Eve, we have believed the distractions and lost the music. Occasionally, we hear it. The Voice breaks through our defenses and we crumble before it. However, more often than not, we block the voice. We live in distraction. We drown out the Voice and the Song so that we can be what we want. We project images of ourselves onto ourselves to hide from the Music, others, and ourselves.

We are frail, stupid creatures. We are human. We are capable of such evil when we drown out the Music and succumb to the Noise. Yet, we are also capable of such beauty when we submit to the Joy. Oh to lose ourselves in the Joy of the Song, to ride with the wind, to swim in the rain. How mach happier we would be if only we'd lose ourselves in it. And the beauty of it all is once we totally lose ourselves in the Music, we are given it right back within the Song.

Distraction

I think I have discovered my most annoying characteristic. Maybe not annoying. Destructive, maybe? I don't know. It's a bad one, to say the least. I dub it "distraction." I have the ability to take whatever I need to do in my life and distract myself to the "nth" degree. I've been doing it my whole life. And I hate it.

When my grandmother died, I distracted myself. Her funeral, the day before my birthday and Easter, passed by in a blur. I was ten. Outwardly, I immersed myself in the family, taking part of the laughs and tears as though I were a part of it. Inwardly, I took notice of everything. I observed my family, watching their patterns of laughing and the sidelong glances at each other, carefully measuring each word as though it could destroy the other. Inwardly, I took notice of each wince and flash of pain on each face. I distracted myself from my own pain by watching everyone else express their own.

When my parents divorced, I distracted myself. I plunged into the church, which is not a bad thing. It helped me through it. But I became so involved that I left my family behind. I untangled myself from my family roots and sat myself elsewhere, where I was looked at with a mixture of pity and admiration. Wow, I was a manipulate little boy. I used the people I was around to feed my own inner need to feel important. I threw out every prayer and church event as though it were spotlights on my own self. "Look at me!" I screamed. "Love me." Sigh.

Things haven't changed much on the inner me. I distract myself from it all: Sin. Loneliness. Diminishing self-worth. I hide behind pretty words and impenetrable walls. I cordon myself to a small part of my soul, and there I stay, constantly placing shiny lights in front of my face to distract myself from my own darkness. I do this again and again instead of just turning around and facing the music. I lock it all away and will it to disappear, and it gets filed away with the rest of my thoughts. All I really want to do is strike a match and burn it all away.

Christmas is supposed to be a season of hope. Yet, I am filled with a numb, distracted slush that slows my mind and heart from any coherent thought. I've lost myself within my own maze that was built to protect me. I am Daedalus, imprisoned in my own labyrinth.

Changing

It is essential to life that change occurs. Change spurns growth, imagination, and refines the soul. At the same time, change causes pain. Some changes destroy deep-rooted passions, thoughts, and ideas. Some changes uproot entire lives. And sometimes, the dreaded change does not happen within one's self. When change occurs in the souls of others, change that one thought unnecessary, then hurt, betrayal, and pain becomes the reality within.

I recognize this pain as a fact of life, but that does not make it any easier to deal with. In fact, it destroys me. Seeing the minute changes within the souls of others rips my heart to shreds. Being gifted with perception and a hint of foresight, I see the paths ahead and, knowing what will occur, I shatter myself on the diamond surface of irrevocable actions. Since I cannot change others' actions, only my reactions, I'm forced to watch the destruction of lives and stand by until asked to interfere. Why? Why do I have to wait and watch the people I love become shells of who they once were because they are only concerned with what they want? Why do I have to be the one to know?

Sadly, I often close down that particular faculty of my giftings, and don't listen to the whisperings of my soul and spirit. And then, I feel empty. I feel like I'm walking through fog and haze instead of the clarity of what I truly see. So, it becomes a balancing act of when to see and when not to see. But I have to pretend like I don't so that a) I don't freak people out and b) so that I don't become over involved in other people's lives and destroy myself in the process. Yet, onward I walk, changing myself and watching the changes around me.

Change may be good. It may spurn all those incredibly wonderful things. But change hurts. And some change was never meant to be.

Myself

I forget myself.
I forget myself. I don't know what I've forgotten till it's already gone.
I forget myself. Searching proves in vain because I don't know what I'm searching for.
I forget myself. I lose my way in the storm, but when the sky clears, where am I?
I forget myself. I bury myself under mountains and expect to rise again.
I forget myself. I hope that marble walls keep the lies contained, but I forget.
I forget myself. Remembrance offers no hope, only pain.
I forget myself. The world around me shudders and fades, but I'm already gone.
I forget myself. Freedom is lost in the smallest acts of self-containment.
I forget myself. I am doomed to follow this path until its end.

I forget myself. The passions. The joys. The fears. The failures. I forget them all. Not necessarily because I want to. It just happens. The truth is I don't know what the truth is. I've lost myself in the faded halls of what I think I am, what others think I am, and the harsh reality that meets my eyes. The world fades into muted colors and sounds, and I walk like a zombie. It'll go away in a day or two, but, for now, I forget myself.

The Longing of the Wind

The wind is a peculiar element. It has no rhyme, no reason. It is not seen, rarely heard on its own, has no original smell or taste. It is, by all sensorial perceptions, nonexistent. The wind blows, and only its effect is noticed. One never notices simple air movements. One notices what is moved.

As I was walking tonight, I looked up and saw dark clouds boiling. Brewing storms always awaken in me a unexplainable passion. Maybe it is the grandeur of weather that enraptures me. I honestly do not know. But what strikes me most is the wind. It does not whip around like some devil on a killing spree. It is a constant, gentle breath that intensifies every few seconds, whirling the leaves and rearranging the shifting pattern underneath the trees. With the storm comes change. I appreciate change. I look forward to it. I accept it.

Yet, the wind produces in me a longing that cannot be explained. It causes a deep, heart-felt pull towards... something unexplainable. It is comparable to the longing experienced in music. I saw Brahms Requiem performed last semester. I thought my heart would burst with joy and gladness as I listened to the voices rise and fall. The wind produces something very similar. I felt like my soul longed to glide on the wind, to be free in its wanderings. I assume that's what Beauty does: it strikes a longing for freedom into the heart and soul. Maybe that's why Beauty slayed the Beast. His soul was caught in the struggle for freedom.

Tonight, as I walked, I finally understood that the wind is but a breath. It has no purpose but to breathe into the world, creating movement. Yet, sometimes a breath is all that separates us from the land of death. I want to be a breath.

Scriobhaim

It means "I write." In Irish-Gaelic. Granted, there is no accent mark, but I think that can be forgiven. I write. I know, it is a little cliché. However, that is what I do. I write for many reasons:
I write to see the world. I write to know what I think. I write to know what I feel. I write to describe my thoughts in a coherent pattern. I write to experience. I write to explain. I write to be myself. I write to discover my self. I write to purge emotion. I write to feel emotion. I write to heal the scars. I write to figure out the scars. I write to not cause more scars. I write because it is life. I write because I can. I write because I do not know how else to live. I write to make myself seem better than I am. I write because I am better than I think I am. I write through the world. I write because I want the grade. I write because the grade does not matter. I write to create new worlds. I write to hear the music of the soul. I write for my self. I write because, in the long run, it is worth it. I write because words are the only things that make sense. I write because communication is all I have. I write to draw others in to my life. I write to give meaning. Scríobhaim. I write.