What does it mean .... ‘Be true to yourself.’
Until I know what I am, what I’m capable of, who I am and may become, ..... and whether change is possible .... ‘be true to yourself’ is problematic.
And how ordinary I am. Sixty years plus have taught me so. Ordinary in the sense of having the same hungers, thirsts and difficult meats to chew on as the rest of mankind and so it is throughout time. In other words - magnificently ordinary, with the odd moment of sparkling brilliance.
Fourteen foot down a mine shaft in Central Queensland with a jackhammer and solitude, looking for Sapphires, to help a ‘poor’ friend, and all done amongst the hard gravelled, clay aggregate and sediment of a river bed so ancient that no human fished that water or left a mark.
I didn’t find gems within that ancient hole but not for want of trying and yet the gems, the nuggets, the mother lode is found in the immaterial but very substantial world of the mind.
I don’t have the hungers of a palate so jaded with desire that an obvious evil rules. I’m quite capable of hideous abuse of power and know this by virtue of exploring ‘myself.’ .... in the realm of the mental if not in the physical.
Abuse - physical, emotional, mental and sexual were all known to me intimately, to the point of vomit, before the age of twelve.
It gives you something to think about. Same for you - no doubt - with maybe variation.
So what did I hold onto through the angst of early life.
Working as a clerk in a huge bureaucracy in the early seventies while I was in my early twenties - and it was all I could do - to hold it ‘together’ - to make it to the office bathroom, bind my arm find a vein, and blast .......I don’t recall ‘what’ .... and drop the syringe on the green carpeted floor of an open office layout, on the way back to my desk, only to have it picked up, be displayed and somehow pretend that it wasn’t mine.
I was eased out of that job but not before having a lunch with a gentle and reserved co-worker - in a beautiful park within walking distance of the office.
I poured out my heart to this elderly woman who just listened.... until I’d finished.
She asked me, if in spite of all this experience, had I retained a belief in God?
I acknowledged that I had.
It’s a powerful memory in my life. She never knew quite how much that hour meant to me..... neither did I at the time. Paramahansa Yogananda was her teacher..... as I remember it.
“Too big to fail.” - we know that phrase is meaningless. Show me anything in life for which ‘too big to fail’ holds true. No giant tree, no twin towers, no mountain, empire or tribal god. Nothing - yet the pretence continues and the scenes play out with a materially bleak Christmas just around the corner.
The tiger lilies stand, proudly orange and black - long green canes with waxy leaves - almost to my face. Some fall over under their own height and weight yet flower regardless, the blooms still turning to catch the most light. Natural laws in action.
Aesop’s Fables were part of my childhood reading. Tales of thrift and careless abandonment to fate. Cautionary tales with moral lessons aimed at those who, perhaps, believe that ‘the rules regarding behaviour throughout life’ don’t appear to apply.
The somewhat neglected, battered and torn by the seasons, garden is beaming from some care and attention. Dead wood, in the garden, isn’t automatically useless or only good for burning. The old and dying fronds of the Tree Ferns, some of which are still able to carry their own weight, help prop up the fairly tender new fronds which the extremes of weather can easily destroy. In many of the Tree Ferns the fronds are taller than I am and can unfurl to full size over a few weeks. A bit of protection from the summer storms is needed while my own temptation is to be too much of a over-keen hairdresser and make them all look pretty - when all they need is a trim. Now I use some discretion and remove that which inhibits growth and leave that which still has use.
‘Now - how to apply that to life.’ he murmured and went off with coffee and cigarette.
Too much sadness in the news and a pleasant article regarding the shamanistic origins of jolly, red faced Santas, magic mushrooms and reindeer takes me back to the ‘way back when’ of my childhood where our local village priest wanted to remove “The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross.’ from our bookcase because it was on the Church’s banned list. He didn’t succeed - all credit to my often maligned ‘dad.’ ..... I expect that the Vatican has its own copy.
Musically, I’m still wrestling with the plectrum but understand that I need to master its use. The five blues boxes are becoming imprinted and moving up and down the guitar neck starts to feel natural and connected. A few more years ...... and yippee already for the joy that music brings.