The littlest of magic! The tiniest of joys! I thought I had left my favorite pen at the writing space (I'm at the library). With a sigh, I pulled a satisfactory pen from my bag. Then I opened my journal and there was my pen! It was tucked into the folded cover, like a little gift from myself. You've got to appreciate the small things!
I'm going to start with what I read last, then go backwards:
"The word paradise, by the way, which comes to us from the Persians, means literally, "a walled garden". p. 236 Because the universe in generous, Liz is now staying in a cottage, surrounded by the beauty of Bali.
I can only imagine, barely imagine through my darkly clouded head, the magical beauty of that place.
Liz writes: "I don't mind anything these days. I can't imagine or remember discontent." p. 235. The cat moaning with Viet Nam flashbacks, the misunderstood howling dogs, the roosters announcing "how freaking cool it is to be roosters", the choruses of birds during the day and the creatures at night all seem to add to the beauty . . . not drive her up the wall with the racket!
She's in a beautiful place, physically and mentally. My angry, discontented, self-sabotaging, super-judgmental self would probably have to get ear plugs to fall asleep at night. Then, I'd get mad at myself for not being able to enjoy the paradise in the first place. The cat would drive me nuts, because I would want the cat to stop acting like a cat! I have similar demands on the world and the people in it (and, on myself) - to stop being what it and they are. It's very dissatisfying to me!
I want me to be some one who doesn't oversleep, who gets up early and gives loyal devotion to God every morning. I'd want me to be some one who can manage his money, balance a friggin' check book, some one who can instantly write brilliant stuff with only two months of real effort. My God! It's only been two months!
It's time to remind myself to go easy. A friend of mine pointed out last night the metaphorical bag of shit I sling on my back - the stuff I take responsibility for, the crippling debt, the broken relationships, the irresponsibility. I am a child in those things. While others were learning about relationships, I was getting drunk and taking hostages. Same thing with money . . . without the hostage part. They all escaped. So, I'm trying to learn now what everybody else learned in college.
And, I'd probably be a lot more forgiving to a college kid than I'm being to myself. My friend said, "I'd never let somebody talk to you you the way you talk to yourself." So, I'm hard on myself. What's new? I honestly don't think I know how to think any other way. So, I suppose, I can't start by recognizing that that is the way I am right . . . then become willing to change. Then, ask for help.
God ran us into each other last night for a reason. She told me her story of financial hell which almost perfectly reflected mine. I see God working in my life with the littlest of miracles: pens and friends! I just have to walk into said miracles whether I like them or not.
I'm tepid about the Meditation Festival. But, all I have to do is show up. I don't recall being asked to like it.
I submitted a piece to a writing contest. I'm now trying to ignore it, to let it go, like I've flung it away. Now, I can forget about it and try my best to squelch the hope of winning anything. That way, this disappointment, the gut-check of the rejection won't be so painful.
But, despite all this, I still write. I'm working on the other story that charged into my head. However, as I type the pages into a second draft, my judgement is ruling in full force, with a heavy-handed and unfair sense of justice. Its edict rolls from its evil throne on high and to my lips. And, out come the words, "this sucks."
But, it's supposed to "suck" for now. I can fall back into my chair in disgust as much as I want. But, am I not answering a calling? Am I not writing for no other explainable reason than, "I have to"?
"Liyer is the name my grandfather gave me when I was a little boy. It means, 'bright light'. This is me. Bright Light." p. 234 Somehow, I feel like this book is carrying me. Even when I miss a few days, I'm back because I ought to, I want to, I have to. And, if it's just for me, then that's enough. Perhaps, this is the way out of this dark and stormy night that is Scott MacKenzie. Led by the hand of God, I'll find the beautiful walled garden, the paradise that is Scott MacKenzie.
Thank you for the pen.
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