I don’t believe that we ever lose someone, not in the real sense. The body ages and decays. Humanity cycles through the perils of death and rebirth, but we never lose anyone. My mother passed away suddenly over six years ago now. I know, too honestly, that tear, that shearing of the soul when death occurs too closely. but she is never away from me.
What I believe is this – there is an essence, a spirit, a soul – whatever happens to be your pleasure of nomenclature designated, but there is something inside the body more than bones and organs and vessels and blood. Those elements all carry life, but they do not in and of themselves create it. Science, my usual trustworthy friend, does not yet designate, what that essence is, but it is special, and I believe it is what makes us human, makes us more than human. It carries the love that we experience and share. It creates hatred and malice to form and separate and destroy us so that we might find another again. It creates beings of immense creativity and destruction that it defies all logic and explanation, but it cannot be lost. It is energy and thus cannot be destroyed through any mortal means known to man, only transferred – into us, into those we touch, connect to and with. It makes us more than human.
We cannot lose people because we are all part of each other and it is to each other we return. It’s how we are born after all. It takes a clan to raise a child, even be that limited to one or more. So to the clan we return when our bodies expire. That is what I believe.
Could I describe the pressure, the elation,
Pulse pounding, race pressure, reaching for the bar,
Could describe the feeling, the high,
Wrap your fingers, your hands, your thumb, prepare –
Look to the mirror, your competion yourself –
Could I describe the rush, blood from the ears and legs, brain and back,
Could I describe the ACHIEVEMENT,
But there is not sufficiently….yet
I used to think that I could write. It was the original dream of mine. I’ll be a writer, I told my parents. It started somewhere in third grade, maybe. Wrote a story for a picture book,
unofficially, in fifth grade. It was a dream, a maybe goal. Wrote some poetry in sixth grade for a renaissance fair assignment. I was praised, small laudment given. It died somewhere in seventh. A new school and suddenly I knew my thoughts weren’t good enough, not prosaic enough to meter good response. High school, with deadlines and hormone bombardments abounding did nothing to encourage either. My creativity withered. Essays and deadlines dropped all desire from my forays and expression. Still part of me remains in question, odd bursts bubble forth from time to time and I wonder again if my words have any worth. Would I have any readers if sometime, here, I posted a rambling? I quess I shall find out.