Nahant Beach, 6 p.m.-ish, 25 November 2010
There are times in this life when you build, and times when you tear down.
A time for everything, as the passage says.
And, like it or not, I’m in the time of tearing down—ripping down the walls and structures I’ve built to survive the past twenty years and finding a new way of living, and maybe even thriving.
I’m calmer now. I’m typing in the car, in the parking lot that parallels the causeway to Nahant. I’ve had a walk in the cold, over the hard-packed sand. The tide is out right now, and the first stars in the blue black of the November sky. November is the anvil of the year, I’ve come to believe, the hard cold forge of the soul leading into the long dark before the Winter Solstice. December is full of brightness… like something in the human soul realizes how bleak November has been and if we want to survive those last 21 days before the days start to lengthen, we’d better add some brightness.
The voice of The All Mother is in the background… the sweet sussuruss of the Atlantic… the incessant lullaby of the waves. No sound on earth eases my soul like that, no guitar, piano, drum or voice reaches me in the Soul Dark like Her whisper, the Great Mother, the Womb of Creation, the Ocean… There is no sound on earth that can silence and soothe the Death Need like the voice of the All Mother.
If you’ve never walked on a beach in the Anvil of the Year, never let the November wind sear through your body like a frozen flame… it scours my soul, rips away the pain inside, strips it out as the voice of the Mother whispers comfort… let it go. Let go of the Soul Dark here in the quiet dark of night on a windswept beach where there is nothing between myself and the water but a long walk on cold sand and at the end… the soft kiss of the water on my feet, plashing over my outstretched fingers, trailing in the swirl of the sand at the edge of the world while the frosted stars wink into light overhead, the only diamonds I ever needed.
This is the closest I get to mysticism, to serenity. I know when I reach the end of the beach, when I pull the car back onto the tarmac of the highway, when I have to face the reality of other people, I will lose this overwhelming sense of calm, the untwisting of the pain in my lower back, the gentle relaxed rhythm of breath that is the only sound beside the tapping of the keys. But I will try to hold on to it because no one can live in this space, no one like me, at least, and function. I wish I could. I wish I could be zen, but I’m not. I am of the Water, born with a spirit of Fire, and forever they contend within me.
In the time of tearing down, I have to accept this. I have to embrace the conflict and harness it. No matter what I call myself—writer, actor, standup philosopher—I am really just a storyteller, and the only story I have is me. I can fictionalize, spin, twist, weave… but in the end, the only thing I have to offer is myself. I feel that part of me—the Storyteller, the Witness—standing outside, watching everything that happens, trying to hold on to the thread of the story, trying to make sure my thread is not lost or cut untimely.
I am trying to define how I’ve survived. I’m trying to figure out how I keep surviving. How to endure the pain that keeps rocking my soul. I know that there is nothing and no one who can save me from this. No one but me.
I will correct one thing I said earlier—there is one thing I am profoundly thankful for: my friends. As I typed the earlier post, I was sitting in my Sbux, and the tears came. My beloved Andrew, bless him, just put his arms around me as he was sweeping, reminding me that there are such things as angels—he’s one of mine. And no matter how awful I feel, I have no right to be so self-centered and not acknowledge the blessings I do have.
To whoever’s reading this, I wish you angels—the real, tangible ones that are friends, living, breathing fellow humans who have the grace and strength to reach out when you are falling into the abyss.
Will post this later; getting cold in here, and the battery is getting low.
A time for everything, as the passage says.
And, like it or not, I’m in the time of tearing down—ripping down the walls and structures I’ve built to survive the past twenty years and finding a new way of living, and maybe even thriving.
I’m calmer now. I’m typing in the car, in the parking lot that parallels the causeway to Nahant. I’ve had a walk in the cold, over the hard-packed sand. The tide is out right now, and the first stars in the blue black of the November sky. November is the anvil of the year, I’ve come to believe, the hard cold forge of the soul leading into the long dark before the Winter Solstice. December is full of brightness… like something in the human soul realizes how bleak November has been and if we want to survive those last 21 days before the days start to lengthen, we’d better add some brightness.
The voice of The All Mother is in the background… the sweet sussuruss of the Atlantic… the incessant lullaby of the waves. No sound on earth eases my soul like that, no guitar, piano, drum or voice reaches me in the Soul Dark like Her whisper, the Great Mother, the Womb of Creation, the Ocean… There is no sound on earth that can silence and soothe the Death Need like the voice of the All Mother.
If you’ve never walked on a beach in the Anvil of the Year, never let the November wind sear through your body like a frozen flame… it scours my soul, rips away the pain inside, strips it out as the voice of the Mother whispers comfort… let it go. Let go of the Soul Dark here in the quiet dark of night on a windswept beach where there is nothing between myself and the water but a long walk on cold sand and at the end… the soft kiss of the water on my feet, plashing over my outstretched fingers, trailing in the swirl of the sand at the edge of the world while the frosted stars wink into light overhead, the only diamonds I ever needed.
This is the closest I get to mysticism, to serenity. I know when I reach the end of the beach, when I pull the car back onto the tarmac of the highway, when I have to face the reality of other people, I will lose this overwhelming sense of calm, the untwisting of the pain in my lower back, the gentle relaxed rhythm of breath that is the only sound beside the tapping of the keys. But I will try to hold on to it because no one can live in this space, no one like me, at least, and function. I wish I could. I wish I could be zen, but I’m not. I am of the Water, born with a spirit of Fire, and forever they contend within me.
In the time of tearing down, I have to accept this. I have to embrace the conflict and harness it. No matter what I call myself—writer, actor, standup philosopher—I am really just a storyteller, and the only story I have is me. I can fictionalize, spin, twist, weave… but in the end, the only thing I have to offer is myself. I feel that part of me—the Storyteller, the Witness—standing outside, watching everything that happens, trying to hold on to the thread of the story, trying to make sure my thread is not lost or cut untimely.
I am trying to define how I’ve survived. I’m trying to figure out how I keep surviving. How to endure the pain that keeps rocking my soul. I know that there is nothing and no one who can save me from this. No one but me.
I will correct one thing I said earlier—there is one thing I am profoundly thankful for: my friends. As I typed the earlier post, I was sitting in my Sbux, and the tears came. My beloved Andrew, bless him, just put his arms around me as he was sweeping, reminding me that there are such things as angels—he’s one of mine. And no matter how awful I feel, I have no right to be so self-centered and not acknowledge the blessings I do have.
To whoever’s reading this, I wish you angels—the real, tangible ones that are friends, living, breathing fellow humans who have the grace and strength to reach out when you are falling into the abyss.
Will post this later; getting cold in here, and the battery is getting low.
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