Skip to main content

Over obvious blind spots

I remember thinking as a young adult, that there are some men out there in our culture, who continue growing stronger all the way up to age 50. I imagined that these strength-gaining characters would be mostly lumberjacks, ship captains and such, but the fact remained that some men were actually gaining larger barrel chests up ‘til age 50.



Another part of me wondered if there was some secret wisdom, whispered into men’s dropsy ears, upon their significant turnover to fifty. Then just this week, I realized that if you count the time from my conception day, I have completed forty-nine years; thus am beginning the first week of 50.



With this in mind, this morning, I showed a friend the recent WR Journal article, regarding visionary librarians and the follow up. She asked what was it that allowed me to see such things. I answered that I usually seemed to have a certain knack to grasp several subjects from far reaches and then develop interesting connections, through either relative stories or simple joke like parables. I continued that although I have seen little monetary gain from this dedicated writing, it’s clear that I should continue upon this path.



I claimed a certain confidence in being able to write inspiring letters of pubic interest, well-flowing poems, etc, because I knew that those stories were there waiting to be connected and since I was adept at doing so, it might as well be me continuing to uncover them.



Then my friend swooped back with a gentle, but piecing question, “So why is it then, that you don’t have this same level of confidence in yourself -apart from your writing?”



For five long seconds, her insight stunned me. However, deep within, I found the slow fortitude, to thank her for asking such a concerned question. Her pricking of this blind spot resonated for day’s remainder and I slowly become thankful for the strength of this esoteric fiftieth gift.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Old post from the Anthropik network

"I noticed, when she delivered the plate of fruit, that my Balian hostess was also balancing a tray containing many little green bowls-small, boatshaped platters, each of them woven neatly from a freshly cut section of palm frond. The platters were two or three inches long, and within each was a small mound of white rice. After handing me my breakfast, the woman and the tray disappeared from view behind the other buildings, and when she came by some minutes later to pick up my empty plate, the tray was empty as well. * On the second morning, when I saw the array of tiny rice platters, I asked my hostess what they were for. Patiently, she explained to me that they were offerings for the household spirits. When I inquired about the Balinese term that she used for "spirit," she repeated the explanation in Indonesian, saying that these were gifts for the spirits of the family compound, and I saw that I had understood her correctly. She handed me a bowl of sliced papaya and
Secret Lives of Meter Readers If you are looking for a long walk every day with not bad pay, maybe meter reading is the ticket. Generally, you get to spend a lot of peaceful time by yourself, plenty of serene reflecting space, unhindered by a bickering work crew. Simply dedicating yourself to reading meters all day can actually lead to a very ascetic lifestyle. When a vault into the earth is uncovered, great mysteries lie inside. Neighborhood kids dash over and want to spy. Newts and frogs, snakes, snails and polliwogs are all revealed from these tiny underground arenas. If the meter reader does not watch carefully, he may uncover a hornet's nest. Thus, most workers carry a medicine pouch within their toolkits. Meter reading routes are hard roads at first; but endurance soon builds up, as the man (or woman) becomes self-reliant. As he walks along, he strengthens his full character, all the way down to his stem cells. Striding along, his breathing becomes natural and he fin

My friend

You come for me often; and sometimes you are welcomed. Sometimes I embrace you like a dear old friend. Sometimes we go for walks together through a forested park. Holding hands like lovers on the verge of a life together. Sometimes we just stay in, and share the night together. There are other times, old friend, when you are not welcome on my doorstep. Sometimes, you need to just leave well enough alone and go your own way. Go back to the dark cave from which you came and wallow in your own misery. Those are the brighter days for me. Those are the days the clouds clear to blue skies; the sun somehow seems warmer on my skin and the days that the mountains seem so much stronger and wise thrusting themselves from the earth. The days I shout to you; I am not alone dear loneliness. I am not alone! The days you are away, I become stronger and more alive. Though, I do miss you, and will welcome your embrace again soon. But I also realize that too much time together w