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January 25, 2004
Loud the crickets, quiet my thought. I arise with a sweet sense of knowing. I placed the January 21st entry into Laura's Memorial. It belongs there. It is always the sweet place, to return to the remembering, the remembering of her sweet face, her laughter.
In time to come, all these days will be the remembering, when I am old and thin. Maybe I will be old, thin of other means, if not the physical. But always I am planning for that day, to be able to bring to THOSE days all the power I can muster. I think it is my savings in the bank for those days.
For I envision myself eighty five and unbowed of spirit. What I might say of future physical back, I cannot not tell. Bowed it may be then, but never the spirit. I lay those bricks now for that future, that my voice might be secure.
For we cannot see ahead, except in determination. And then only a planning, a hoping. But without the planning and hoping, then it is only random what happens. And I am not ever one to let the 'willed conscious evolution' turn random. Call it my genetic basis, heritage, that which is in me, my 'true will', my own 'orbit among the stars' . . .
This that is in me given to reverie, I cherish. I bring to life its value and any other individual can do the same. Your values will not be my values, they will be your values and hence sacred for You. Namaste! That which is divine in me salutes that which is divine in you. We are the gods of our own making.
I have begun this in the 'mundane' journal. It shall stay here, for seeds of mundane bleed into the other journal. I am all of a piece, I cannot easily chop here and there to make neat borders. Life is not tidy, nor am I.
Though I try, I try. There are some uncluttered corners of my house, and some uncluttered corners of my mind. I will sort them out to my leisure one fine day. When I am old, perhaps? These spaces and places shall be that memory box I wrote of so many years ago:
Memory
Okay, nineteen years ago is not 'so many' years for me. But for those of you whom the span of nineteen years is but the entirety of your known life, that is 'so many' years. I grab at time furiously, I will not let it go and just slip through my fingers.
Have I a method to immortality that way? Yes, of a sorts. Perhaps all such urgings towards 'immortality' are 'of a sort'. One writer I've studied wrote:
Michael Aquino, 'Beyond The Abyss'
And, yes, this statement I do understand. It is by hazy wishes we approximate such mysteries.
Maybe the dead come back and tell tales and maybe they don't. Meanwhile, we the living, we tell the tales that shall be immortalized in stone, in whatever medium of lasting record exists. The tales shall at least live.
That is planning for retirement, as best as I know how. Let others save pennies of copper. I save these tales.
© Joan Lansberry |
