Mabon and the Sukkot Moon (Yes, I missed Sunday.)
Monday gratefuls: Ruth. Gabe. Alan. Blackbird Cafe. Kittredge. An unsystematic theology. Snow in the forecast. Gray white Skies. Skeletal Aspens. That evening zoom with my son, Seoah, Murdoch, Ruth and Gabe. A family moment. Diane back in the USA. Mark still in K.L. Kate, always Kate. Irv and Marilyn. The Night Sky. Kepler and Gertie.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: That moment with Ruth
Kavannah: Compassion rachamin
One brief shining: We were all there, this patched together family, Ruth in my red leather chair, Gabe on its ottoman, me in my blue Stickley chair, my son, Seoah, and Murdoch on zoom in Songtan, Korea talking and laughing as my son opened his birthday present from me, Seoah told Ruth she was beautiful, Gabe mentioned theater as an interest of his, and I luxuriated in the normality, the sweetness of a family joined together with almost no blood ties, but love, oh yes, love.
So much yesterday. Forgot to post. Ancient Brothers. Ruth and Gabe. Going out for lunch with Alan only to discover after waiting for a bit that muscle relaxants had put him to sleep.
Learned that two of the Ancient Brothers had the power of positive thinking, Dale Carnegie, as a deep and lasting influence. Another conceptual therapy. How to train the mind toward a positive and successful mindset. Felt a slight twinge of envy. If I’d had something like that, would I have persevered in marketing my books? Might I be published by now?
In my case I’ve always gone for mantras and prayers and rituals that investigate my life, my inner life, and encourage me to act, yes, though success fell long ago outside my grasp. Not sure why. Of course there was school. Where success was long past being a goal and had become an expectation. One that tired me out, wore me out, burned me out. And btw my Dad had me read Dale Carnegie because he believed I needed to learn how to get along with people. I did. But because he required me to read it, I pushed its lessons away.
Even writing. I wanted to get published. At first a lot. And publication would have been success of a sort. I did try, but I let I can’t get there become truth. As one of us said, if you believe you can or if you believe can’t, either will be true. I let myself believe my writing wasn’t good enough. That no agent, no publisher would want it. I tried to achieve 100 rejections in a year. Couldn’t stay with it. Didn’t stay with it. I stopped trying.
Those stories where the young writer sends manuscript after manuscript over the transom, never admitting defeat, always crampons on, ice ax in hand scaling the slippery cliff to publication. Not me. I used to be embarrassed by this fact. That’s how I decided it was my writing and not my perseverance. Easier to take, I guess.
So here I sit at 77 with no artistic successes to my name. On me. Perhaps on my talent. Not really sure. That’s not to say I haven’t led a satisfying and purposeful life. I have. Cue the no blood ties family. The gardens and dogs and earthy life of Andover. Of political battles fought and won. Organizations created. Deep thinking maintained, emotional stability attained and sustained. Personal relationships made and sustained. My life with Kate.