Sunday, January 01, 2006
THE ART OF A NEW YEAR
I'd only been born a few months and already I was experiencing my 3rd new year.
And so it is again - the old slate swiped clean and a fine fresh horizon beckoning my sailing, whirling, wandering craft. What direction to maneuver with a rudder gone amok? Alas, the tide of fate will no doubt call for sails to billow and steer my bow of fortune toward lands I still know not.
The call to love is firmly planted in my soul - the winds of time have yet to rip the garment of that robe. And yet the seeds of doubt begin to whisper - their sprouts of pollen, mold, and sullen apprehensive vines, which deep beneath the intractable stoney, grassy facade, seek sustenance to bring to bear the weeds of fear - a garden of acquiescent sublimation and quiet resignation.
The toll of love is not the pain of loss as much the pain of loss for naught. The calm commitment to raise the flower from the earth and tenderly nurture its beauty - to nurture for the sake of calling forth the best the orchid has - has to sing, perhaps to dance, and then to marvel as the form for which you dreamt, exceeds so far beyond the tantalizing ring of your imagination.
Ahh! But then the empty rooms clang noiselessly and years of toil and aching bones bring forth even larger callous caverns. The beat of old and tired hearts cant lure the rush of joy from distant empty ears or eyes. Has time come now for the well to finally call the pail to cease it's fruitless irrigation? Surely not from love's lost luster. It burns ever sweet.
So, has time come? Is meaning's glow retreating much as a flickering candle's flame harkens darkness?
Now the new year calls and as the breezes blow across the canvas of my life, I tread the oaken planks and squint to see the shadow of an apparent apparition - a port perhaps. Will once again, the blood of new found promise stir the effervescence in my brain?
A port perhaps....
