Imbolc Imbolc Moon
1948. Polio at one and a half, paralyzed for six months, some time in an iron lung. Relearned to walk. The beginning of childhood. October, 1964. Mom dies of a stroke. 17, childhood’s end. Just realized this last week that my childhood had these two inflection points. Strange to think of childhood that way.
Hard to know the true pathways of the mind. But. Alcoholism. Smoking. An anxiety disorder. A constant focus on existential questions. Maybe. Maybe these were causative. Or, rather, my responses to them.
At 71 all that seems so long ago. I call those times the long ago and far away. Isn’t true, of course. That little boy still struggles with learning how to walk. That high school senior still grieves, is shocked, stunned. Compassion for the young man in his twenties, the one who lived after, unconscious largely, angry, hurt, determined, passionate. He didn’t understand the powerful psychic currents pushing and pulling him, making him yearn for knowledge, making him demand a changed world. Wish I could go back and hold his hand, comfort him. Reassure him. He needed it.
No matter our birthday, 19 or 99, our past selves come along to the party. I’m unclear about the reality of self or soul though I believe in them both. Whatever the self is, it’s a composite, a melange of key moments and the reactions to those moments. And, as time goes on, the reactions to those reactions.
Whatever the soul is, it represents that of us common with other souls, that of us common with the unimaginable creativity resulting in life. As such, the soul is our literal birthright, unimpeachable by our actions, our hopes, our nightmares. No matter how sullied or glorious our life our soul retains its pristine quality, its eternal character of universality. The afterlife, if there is one, lies hidden behind the veil; but, if anything passes into it, it will be this. Would the soul be stripped of the barnacles attached by our long or short lives? Hell if I know.
I’m happy to have lived this long, 71 years. And, I can see now that answers are not part of the search. It was always the questions. As Kate and I lived in the move for the 9 months before we left for Colorado, so have I always lived in the questions. Then, in the long ago far away, and now, in 2018 on Shadow Mountain. Tomorrow, too.
“Valentine’s Day began in commemoration of St. Valentine. It seems that in the third century A.D., Emperor Claudius II of Rome issued a ban on marriages and engagements, to encourage young men to join the army instead. But Valentine went ahead and continued marrying couples in secret. When the emperor discovered this, Valentine was condemned to death and beheaded. The year was 278.” 
The first day of Lent falls, this year, today. That means, as Allan Metcalf, the author of the article quoted below says, that we’re dealing with hearts and ashes. Makes sense to me that my 71st would fall on such a day. Since hitting three score and ten a year ago, I’ve passed into birthdays that commonly show up in the obituary pages. Ash Wednesday reminds us that we deconstruct, returning our enlivened elements. #Recycle Me as the green burial folks said.
Off to 
Felt myself slipping into that old debil melancholy this morning. You know, the usual. What have I done with my life? Have I wasted it, wasted the gifts granted to me by genetics and being thrown into this amazing moment on the world’s journey? Look at how much others have done. Kate. Joanne. Ron. The rabbi. Deadly, comparing. And, pointless.