[L, diary, ephēmeris] 1) BLOG

Recently had an epiphany when I was in the 'big city' of Dumaguete: I was driving  along the coastal road  that divides slum/rural from urban.  In a hurry to get a block of ice at the factory, I'd swerved into my left-hand turn from paved street onto dirt and, though slightly slowed down, was still moving fast enough to contemplate hurtling down the rutted road to the plant. Sighting the rocky gulleys of recent rain water before me, sudden drifts of ancient driving advice challenged my intention:  was racing over the tops of bumps really the best way, or was slowing down to wallow and bump through them, wiser?

Or was I confusing the skills of driving a car with that of a dinghy?

Crashing head-on with the Evel Kneivel approach came an echo of Bill's none-too-pleased observation ("Pedal to the metal!") of my usual driving...so, OKAY, what-the-heck, I slowed down, took every mini-swale and hillock at a snail's pace...and gently rolled into the yard ages later with the insight that my life's recent problems were exactly like that:  I had been loosening my teeth and jarring every bone in my body by attempting to slam through and over, as fast as possible, the recent death of Bill’s/our closest friend, along with the sixth anniversary of his own passing.  Surrendering to an undulating terrain of grief was akin to the near-despair I'd just experienced while creeping gently, with frustratingly slow progress, over rough ground until a level plane (resolution) was reached, was obviously the only sane answer.

There are big deaths and little deaths in life; the big ones are usually Changes that are not Choices.  They are the hardest to be patient with.  Changes that we did not ask for, expect, or even deserve. Those are the hardest to accept, to learn to live with, to make peace with; to incorporate into our life with any hope of future joy.

Traversing darkened valleys is not something easily asked of others to share.  Especially if they extend any distance longer than a simple rutted road to the ice house.  Though sympathy and compassion comes freely from close friends, it is still not something asked for if needed frequently.  So, in the acceptance of needing to go slowly and gently with oneself, silence becomes the means when words can no longer come.  When even creativity goes into hibernation.

Creativity, though, is the ultimate healer.  Even while not particularly able to be creative myself, reading or seeing or hearing the creative expressions of others lights the way.  They are uplifts, simple moments of revival, freshening breezes to inhale along with views of possibilities awaiting.  Visions of feeling alive again, as the poem of David Whyte’s did for me, titled SWEET DARKNESS. 


 I had found this poem while Googling another, at this website, and made a screen shot of it.  I was careful--respectful--of including the attribution, had added it to this post even though I was not sure if I was abusing the permission granted prior but assumed it is okay if I was not financially profiting by its inclusion. 

Then I checked and realized I was, regretfully, not allowed to do so.  I highly recommend clicking on the link (at this website) to read it, as well as the other pieces Elizanda de la Sota has on her website. 

David Whyte's website was especially worthwhile to visit, adding even more positive input to my returning  joy of living in the Philippines, aboard PILAR; my daily life afloat and ashore.  Life here has not grown smaller with my losses; it is alive with projects so impossibly big that my eyes widen with the thrill of imagining them really happening!  WHEW!  It is good to feel this way again...so instead of feeling like this: 

...it is very much like a landfall after a long passage:

...and the excitement of exploring what lies within: