You think you have your life figured-out and then you’re knee-deep in muck because you were too busy congratulating yourself to watch your step…
I’m under orders to rest this week, to let the meds help defeat the chest congestion dogging me for two months. “Any longer and it’d have been pneumonia,” my doctor said. Whoops.
A good time to adopt new habits like rising earlier for meditation.
Eighteen months ago my plan was to relocate to Montana, publish my poetry, complete the online story, and then publish fantasy novels. I completed the move in February 2014 and published the poetry book, The Renaissance Cycle, that May.
So far so good.
But things change, people change, and places change people. Summer in Missoula was glorious. I visited Flathead Lake, drove the Bitterroot Valley, and managed to climb Mt. Sentinel. My eyes opened to the beauty surrounding me and my gratitude swelled. My eyes and heart opened further as the person so long suppressed emerged in her new surroundings.
Still, I forged on with the plan and completed the online tale that August. Funny how writing can expose your inner thoughts (I’m finding meditation also helps). Although our life situations differed, like Shayleen in Last Word Before Dying I wanted to deny the truth my heart already knew:
“Dear Genessa…” Her whisper went unheard by those fighting in the street.
A pure heart was useless if one didn’t possess the courage to use it, but what was properly using a pure heart? The willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice, “so that others might live,” she finished aloud.
It is good, Shayleen…you understand…
And she did.
Shayleen wept because she didn’t want to understand, but there was no unlearning the truth. She turned the blade over in her hand and read, Forged of Kruth. A Parthian Blade…she little understood what that meant, but she knew what the Bane Dagger meant.
Not her magic, for she possessed none, but the dagger’s magic.
Hafron, via Tiding, had told her what she needed to know. One dagger per year for seven years, for the spells were intricate and little understood. Little understood. And that was why they didn’t work, couldn’t work as the champions thought they should.
They hadn’t understood their own creation. Shayleen, on the other hand, saw beyond the weapon to the responsibility that came with a pure heart.
“Oh Papa, I’m so scared…”
Kneeling beside her father’s lifeless body, the Bane Dagger held tight, she stared at the blood on her hands. She saw her father’s blood, her father’s life, and saw her unfulfilled life slipping through her fingers.
It wasn’t fair, but then it wasn’t fair for others to die.
Shayleen faced her denial, but I wrestled with mine for more than six more months. Let no one say I’m not a stubborn Taurus.
I’m not yet the fantasy writer I desire and refuse to publish inferior writing. Thus, publishing is premature. I’ve made my peace and now my pre-paved path has become one of new possibilities not yet explored, of passions long suppressed.
No, I’m not going to preach my miracle philosophy of life that calls for you to send me money for regular updates and the chance to take classes that lead to more classes and so on and so on. That isn’t my style. Never was. My style is like when I found a path that helped me out of the cycle of depression. I put it in an inexpensive book of poetry and called the task complete. Yeah, The Renaissance Cycle.
I’m reawakened to the exclusion, hate, and injustice in the world. I know it well, for I was raised a victim in a broken family where fear was my closest companion and I wrestled with an internal torment while struggling to survive. The walls I built for protection trapped me for over forty years. The depression still haunts.
How I escaped that prison and put my life back together is a topic I’ve barely touched upon here. It’s also a topic I’ve raised with people in the mental health field who were unanimous in urging me to write a memoir. They were truly astounded that I’d survived life experiences I’d always viewed as unremarkable. A memoir is one path I’m considering and researching. I desire above all else to help others, to ease suffering, to let them know compassion.
And so it goes. Possibilities emerge. My mind opens to new ideas. I explore options and opportunities. My path, never a straight one, continues into future’s haze where I walk wide-eyed and passionate. I don’t yet understand, but that’s okay. Further along the path may be fiction, non-fiction, or a possibility of which I’ve yet to imagine.
As is so often the case in my life the path that scares me most is the one I know deep within I must take. I’ve finally reached the point where I can honestly say, “Bring it on.”