Winter Into Spring

[DaemonOfLowell]

Often times I forget how pretty the view is from my window. It is dusk now, the northwestern hills of the valley silhouetted against a faded blue, melting down into a golden glow above the tree-line. Life in a northern town.

Truth is, the shutters have been closed tight for weeks, maybe even months. My moods have oscillated from dark to chaotic to ebullient here and there, and now has settled into a relatively even, if somewhat subdued pensiveness. I imagine that I am not unlike my father, in the days before he got sick, resigned to a dull career for the sake of family. Looking back, I remember the kind visage of a gentle and good humored man; but behind the bright smiles I also sensed weariness and the pangs of lost ambition, the fading memories of dreams deferred. All that was left of those hopes he transferred to me, quietly saying, “Kh-reh, Jal-heh, Jal-heh...” (alright, go do well, go do well) as I went off to college. It is so ironic that I too have been laden with this quiet weariness, everything tinted with a pale sadness, like the “Eldar”* remembering the ancient beauty of a young and pristine middle-earth before being tainted with evil. (* The first-born elves prior to the coming of men in J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic “Lord of the Rings”)

The window is dark now, and “night falls fast...” but not for me. Aided by the patience and grace of family, my dreams await... should I choose to face them. Just as writing regularly has been earned with grit and effort, the life that I desire lies before me, should I choose the sunrise. And yet, it is a daily battle, looking despondency in the eye and refusing to yield; often times I become too exhausted counting the reasons to believe, leaving me battered before the day has scarcely even begun. It is in that sudden moment of despair, when the pain of missed opportunities crushes you under the weight of regret, that so many days are marred before they even begin. Then “all’s misalliance” as Lowell* spoke, and we are left to chance, fate, or a lonely fight accompanied by shadows and daemons. (*Robert Lowell)

And yet, “the sun also rises...” each day, and unto every season, winter having washed over jagged marks in the earth, renewing leaf and soil. And like the wretched of the earth, we toil on, scratching through dirt and clay, searching for a richer field unencumbered by root or by rock. It is not work for the faint at heart. So I can only look to my ancestors, believing that the endurance of their line has resulted in the life and mystery that we carry on. Somewhere, deep in my genes, lies the strength to keep moving forward and to flourish, or else I would not be here. I have to trust to that.

I wish my father was still here. I would like to have spoken to him of such things... of the things he hoped for -- but that essence is probably within me too. Just keep moving.