What harm can come from picking up and pen and a piece f paper?
How can words hurt?
Do you write in white ink?
A silent man was asked to speak at a gathering. To the crowd watching it appeared as if the speaker was well composed. He had the advantage of age. Maturity had been a good teacher. Experience was on his side. The scales were tipped in his favor.
How can he be thirty-five and still be thinking about school playgrounds and taking sides? Can't anyone see the scraped knees, the hand-me downs, the scared little boy. Why does age seem to betray him? Forget about childhood and youthfulness. It is no longer about getting a driver's license or getting carded at the bars. Why do some people hold youth in such high regard, while others grow old gracefully? Some seem to fall into life's routines, still others aren't willing to put away their glass marbles, the local swimming holes, fireflies in July, leaves that dance on Autumn's first breeze. They still dream of snow days spent sledding. They wrap even the tiniest gift in tissue paper.
As his hands press the podium, he composes himself reaching for the notes in his pocket. He first speaks in a voice only he can hear clearing his throat. He steps back into the present and remembers the reason he is to speak. The occasions vary, but, the emotions remain the same. This could be a Garden Party, Back to School Night, Parent Conferences, a Chance Encounter, a First Date or as it would now be His Own Funeral.
For in a very real way, this man who stands before you has died a thousand deaths since his birth. They started very early for him. No one should have to die before they remember their parents saying "I Love You!", as they did he is certain. This man is living proof that one can die from embarrassment. The times he was dressed as a little girl for Halloween because nothing else would fit; being tickled until he peed his pants, not knowing how to ride a bike or catch a baseball until he was in late elementary school. A tender hearted boy grows up slow in a farming community where strength is prided upon. Naturalists were only in vogue in New England several centuries before his birth.
Never, never believe the children's chant, "Sticks and stone may break your bones, but, words will never hurt you." Word can kill. "Fatty, fatty, two-by- four. Couldn't fit though a bathroom door!"never did anything to improve a child's self esteem. And the poem about what little boys are made of, left out a few verses for those who never saw a puppy dog' s tail, or who would choose crayons over karate, books over baseball bats, and solitude over sports.
Some boys take up hunting because it gives him a reason to be in the woods for hours. Some boys like flowers and the color purple. Some boys build castles in the sand while others swim in the surf. Some boys play in the band while others play on the football fields. Some Boys take art classes while others are in shop class. Some boys make meals while others are making repairs on their cars. Some boys beat the drums because it is more acceptable than beating the walls. Some boys write poetry while others keep the score. Some boys are quiet and shy, while others are loud and aggressive. Some boys have great smiles but they will never go to the prom or be the Homecoming King. Some boys wear pants that don't have holes in their knees. Some boys wear button shirts while others wear t-shirts. Some boys wear vests while others wear tank tops, they still are both sleeveless.
The list goes on and on, it's high time we stop putting people in boxes and demanding that perceptions are proof positive. But, back to the death at hand. There is no time to speak of the queer jokes he endured through high school, the dates he didn't have in college, the cool cars he never drove, or the risks he didn't take. Confidence never comes wrapped in a single capsule, nor is happiness a pill that can be taken. Life is the totality of all the events, those noticed, those not recognized. Some recorded, but mostly a vapor. Some were significant, others unimportant. Some dug in deep, while others quietly slipped away. There are bumps along the road of life and there are milestones. One never knows what will jolt them. However this last death really slapped him hard in the face. The stinging remains even a week later. Maybe this won't leave a lasting scar, but, it is sure to take a while to heal.
So a silent man was asked to speak at his funeral in September. He clears his throat one last time and begins with lyrics of a song from long ago that had been recently used as a book title. "I know this much is true..."
Thus began the man's reintroduction to the land of the living. he continues his epitaph saying; "Today we remember an accomplished author, a published poet, an enthusiastic entertainer, an artistic artist, an incredible cook, a kind soul, a lover of the lost one and walks in the woods, a terrific teacher, a beloved brother, a spiritual being, a quiet thinker, a dreamer. We remember a man more or less who was aware of his demons, who had faced some of his fears, who sailed through some scary storms, who spent many a sleepless nights awake wondering if this was it. But a man none the less who was willing once again to say, "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I should have listened better to what you said.”
Thoughts of becoming fifty...Much remains the same love those put in your path (Family and friends float to the top). Save time for silence and stillness, and treasure serenity in the small simple pleasures. Find your passion and allow it to soothe your soul. Never give up the hope in better days nor the adage "This too shall pass." Blessings upon your journey!!
