Heaven-sent

She says she’s going to heaven like she owns the fucking place.

I’d pack her off to hell if I believed there was one.

Here, at first hand, I observe a life being stripped, like a chestnut tree in lingering November.

But the chestnut is at peace.  At its core and amongst its many branches, it harbours no resentments.

I can find a place to sit upon its roots, lean against its trunk and dream.

It’s no accident I’ve barely touched the guitar in these last months, or that all my writing’s been reflective. 

Creating is like shitting, or sex, perhaps.  To do it well and to be satisfied, one needs a place of safety – one of peace.

The parts, established or imagined, that make up the whole have been agitated, distracted and disturbed for too long.

But I see there’s a point to these things, and even though the point might be an artifice of human reasoning, it serves its didactic purpose.

The point concerns the bitterness we accumulate and carry deep inside.  The “we” is parochial, but if the cap fits…  Hey.

The basis of my being is not at peace.

But I’ve stumbled on an opportunity.

When anger and resentment form the core, everything on top is window-dressing: the character is not believable, the traits of affection, generosity are badly carried off.  I see this daily.

Beauty finds no place to root.

A valuable lesson, for which I’m increasingly grateful.

For almost four years, and perhaps a lifetime, resentment and bitterness have entangled me like ivy.

To observe is to have the opportunity to reflect upon oneself; an opportunity to build and move on; to find some truth, some meaning, and maybe some peace.

In these uncertain times, our autumn might be foreshortened, winter might be soon upon us.

Now's the time to cut away the bindweed and the ivy and sit among the chestnut’s roots; rest against its great pacific trunk.  Learn from the Earth.

After all, the worst thing that can happen is oblivion.  In the meantime, allow beauty to take root and maybe even flower.

Today, the guitars came out.