Hi there,
Enclosed is an e-mail I wrote a little bit more than a year ago. I thought it might be worth while to share with you Today. Its kind of long … please excuse the type-os.
ragalg (aka: glagar)
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Hi there,
I’m glad to hear that even through all the insanity that personal, spiritual and professional growth and development requires you still take time to enjoy some simple pleasure such as tea. As I’m writing this I myself am enjoying a cup of tea in an effort to get myself ready for the day ahead. Since I enjoyed the structure of your epic e-mail I have decided to loosely follow it, this way I hope to be able to reciprocate my thoughts accordingly.
I find if of interest that you are moved and comforted by the fog. I will admit that for me its effects are a bit more on the detrimental side of things. When I think of the fog, I recall driving down driving down Crenshaw blvd in a fog so impenetrable that I could not see the sidewalk or the lane next to me. Driving blindly down this street brought back the feelings of anxiety and blindness that I too often feel in night time reveries. None the less, I do find the fog fascinating. It is as if the ocean has escaped its defined boundaries and has claimed possession of the land. Ahhh … and I do love the ocean. The ocean provides me with the gift of perspective. Even when my entire being is consumed with unbearable pain, the ocean helps me realize that this pain is not all encompassing, nor is it everlasting.
But going back to meteorological phenomena, what moves me is rain. I love observing the world when the sky is overtaken by gray clouds just waiting to release their cleansing (hopefully not acid) rain all over the city. During these moments very thing seems so crisp and full of potential. I am comforted by the thought of my soul being purified by these particles of water. I imagine that as the water touches my skin it takes with it a bit of the resentment and hatred that I have unwittingly collected over the years. Yes, hatred … in this life I have known pure, raw, intoxicating, deadly hatred … but only for one person.
Have you ever woken up after all hell has broken loose and, as you open your eyes, for a moment you don’t remember that your world has been defiled and that your soul has been mutilated? (Ahhh … even 11 years later the tears still spring up from my soul when I recall it) I remember opening my eyes and for a time everything was fine. But then slowly a wave of dread consumed my being. Then I remembered. I remembered that the previous night I had been a witness to death and murder. It was 7:35 pm on the Monday, December 26 (Entertainment Weekly was playing on the TV). That was when I heard the first shot and a small sound arising from my stepfather as the bullet hit him (he was outside). Then the terrible sound of my mother screaming, followed by a long silent pause. I was holding my sister (she was one year old). The silence was shattered by the sound of 13 more gun (rifle) shots, one right after another. (I can still hear the sounds of the screaming and bullets ringing in my ears). Then silence again. I don’t know how much time passed before I went outside. But there he was, Ken (my step dad), lying face down on the pavement. I knew he was dead. I imagined (or saw?) his spirit above looking at me as I looked at his body. I went inside and called the police. I wasn’t hysterical … I was for the moment in control … I has stuff to do … I needed to take care of my family … I needed to make sure we were going to be OK. I called 911. I steadily gave the operator a summary of events: my uncle’s name, my name, my age (13 years old), our address and phone number. The operator then told me that the police were on their way and to get towels; so that I could cover Ken’s wounds (again more tears). So I did as she instructed me to do. I got a towel, walked outside, and looked at him. I knew he was dead. I kneeled down and placed the towel on him (he was warm). His body had been disfigured. There were no little bullet holes, instead it was as if parts of his flesh had been scooped, or burned, away. In the background I heard the police so I walked to the front of the house. The police saw me and pointed their guns at ME. That was when I saw HIM, there HE was, the murderer, my beloved uncle. I told the police that HE had done this … he confirmed it and they proceeded to arrest him. Meanwhile, I took the police officers to where Ken’s body was, and then I went inside to see my mom and sister. My mom was hysterical. My uncle told her that she would be the one responsible for Ken’s death, and she believed him. To this day, 11 years later, she has not been able to release herself from that burden. We waited for the police to do their job and for a moment there was calmness. And for a moment things were alright: the police were taking care of business and my uncle was in custody. During this temporary moment of calmness I recall entertaining the idea that Ken was alive. I imagined us at the hospital visiting him while he recovered. Then there was a knock on the door and the police confirmed what we already knew: Ken had died … Ken had been murdered … my uncle was a murderer … my mother was a widow … Ashley would grow up without a father (she wouldn’t even be able to remember him) … the realities of so many lives were irreparably altered. I too was changed.
That is the moment when hatred was born unto me. I felt it. (tears) It landed on my soul, took root and relentlessly began to overtake my spirit. That was the moment when I lost complete control. I can’t really remember it, but I know there was crying, yelling, screaming, and a complete and total disconnect from reality. I was hysterical. I was broken … devastated … and I could no longer endure my own existence. I felt the hatred spring from my eyes, pulse through my veins as it created a home for itself within me. It filled me. I embraced it. I welcomed its numbing touch. I loved it and it loved me back; and for a time (10 years) it sustained me. I felt strong in it; it felt strong in me. It was hate that helped me get up and continue to exist in order to achieve my newfound goal. I knew that I had to go on … to go on to witness the destruction of the man who had polluted my soul, the man who had introduced me into the darkness, the man who had so willingly opened the doors of hell for me and who had beaconed me to walk through the threshold.
As the years passed I learned that hatred grew exponentially. I discovered that I hated Him for so many GOOD reasons. I hated him for his murder. I hated him for destroying my mother. I hated him for leaving my sister without a father. But most of all, I hated him for the annihilation of my innocence (tears). Several years down the line I realized that even though I harbored hate within me, it is not in my nature to hate. And even though the hate sustained me, it also destroyed me. So, since my soul was in need of healing I sought council form the church. What better place? Right? Well, the "church" proceeded to inform me that because I harbored hatred in my soul I was damned, and as a result I was denied God’s love and blessing. They basically let me know that in my current state I was destined for hell. That was unless I repented. That’s right!! Now I had to repent I was the sinner
! Well this just added fuel to the fire. Now I hated Him, because I hated him
He had indeed sent me into hell. And there it (hell) was, just waiting to open its doors for me and take me in as its newest resident.
Please keep in mind that when all this was going on I was between the ages of 13 to 23. During this decade I developed a theory of two about life and hate. I came to the conclusion that if one is steadfast in the internal, or external, proliferation of hate, there is but one end. I believe that, when one truly hates, one inevitably becomes what one hates. When I came to see this I decided to stop and alter the course of my existence. I decided that would no longer hate. Since that time I have reclaimed my soul, and myself, from the powerful and intoxicating embrace of hate. But, make no mistake; hate has left its make upon me. I am forever changed; I feel it every time I awake and open my eyes. This is why I love the rain. When rain appears I imagine (hope) that it takes away some of the soot and filth that that hatred bestowed upon me during its decade of residence within me.
Now, even though I have made progress, I am painfully aware that my journey of healing, and growth, has just started. The other day I was driving to the office and I thought, "You know what I don’t hate him any more. I no longer revel in the thoughts of possible tortures that he might be victim to." When I realized this I was so excited and pleased with myself for my spiritual and emotional achievement. Just when I was about to pat myself on the back, the Peeps (that is how I refer to the angels, elders, spirit guides, etc … who take the time to chat with me … we have a very casual dialogue) said, "So … umm … have you FORGIVEN him?" I was blown away! Not just because of the unusual clarity with which I heard them, but also because I had never even considered the possibility of considering the possibility of ever even thinking of maybe forgiving him. Damn it! The fact is that NO, I have not forgiven him. Damn! Nonetheless … now … unlike any other moment before, I am open to it and I see the necessity of it in order to release me (and my family) from the grasp of his (my uncle’s) hatred. Otherwise I KNOW that I will be bound to the earth to exist and experience life yet again … and again … until I am willing to surrender and let go.
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This leads me to answer the question of what is it that makes me get up and go every single morning. Why do I do what I do? What is my purpose? Naturally I have thought deeply about this and I have a response … it follows:
I was five years old when I first had a true sense of self. That was the time when I was able to truly understand that I was alive on earth. I knew there must be some reason for my existence. And that was when I first realized how awkward I found the human experience (and that I didn’t really like it). This may sound odd, but I have never really gotten used to being alive. I can recall being five and informing my mother that, "God must have made a mistake when he made me a person." I proceeded to tell her that "I was supposed to have been a bird or something else … because it is too hard to be a person." Even now the human experience seems like a pair of shoes that just don’t fit quite right. It seems that no matter how much time (or how many lives) passes there is something about living that is so innately unnatural for me. I think it has to do with there being a physical separation from the perfect love of God (the source).
Anyway, even though it I find it unnatural to live … it is my nature to try to help, guide, try to make the experience of living a little bit more bearable for those who live. This may sound cheesy, but the moments when I aid others to "see" more clearly, are the moments when I feel the pain of living a bit less. During the time that I worked in marketing, I found life utterly unbearable and I knew that I could not exist that way … because I was not doing that which helps me live. That leads me to talking about why I do what I do.
It may not surprise you that this is not the first time I am asked this question. I have a reply … but I wonder if my answers will reveal my emotional/spiritual immaturity. Nevertheless they are my realities, so I stand by what I am about to write.
There are several reasons why I get up and out every single damned (or blessed) day. The first reason is to learn, learn, and learn. Ahhh … so much to learn and so little time. Please note that I am not referring to trivial facts, those do not interest me. I’m talking about concepts, ideas, experiences, abilities … that is what I live to learn about. Things that have captivated my mind in the past have been art, music, books. Ultimately I guess I want to how the experience of living is perceived by others. Do they like it? How do they bear it? What are their vices? Do their vices help or destroy them? What is their favorite thing about being alive? (For me it is chocolate, mustard, flaming hot cheetoes, the sound of the violin, and the emotional and physical aspects of loving & being loved back) The second reason why I do what I do is for my family; my mom and my sister. I know that I was placed here to care for them. And since they are my biggest strength, naturally they are also my biggest weakness. I know that when I die, letting go of them will be my biggest challenge. The third reason why I continue is to finally escape, or graduate from, the seemingly endless cycle of human experience.
What follows is the essence of a little chat I had with God some time ago:
I say to God: "I want out!" He says: "You’re the one who asked for this."
Me: Yes … but
God: No excuses. You must finish what you started.
Me: I didn’t understand what I was asking for!
God: No matter, I warned you and now you must follow through. However, I will carve a path for you to go through, but you are the one who must walk through it so that you may return home.
Me: Fine, (sigh …) I will walk the path.
God: I know. But take heart, I will guide your way, support you and walk with you, but it is up to you to take every single step.
So, every single day, I walk the path. Some days I walk faster than others. Some days I lead myself to the wrong way (but eventually find my way back). Some days I fall (God helps me get up). And some days I sit down and refuse to move at all. The only constant is God, and the Peeps, who walk with me, help me find my way when I am lost, and comfort me when I fall.
Ultimately, the only real reason why I do what ever the hell it is that I do, is to return home. So that I can exist as I was originally meant to exist, in my true form. And in doing so, I can better love God, the Peeps, and his creations for all of time.
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I agree with you about the process of writing. Somewhere hidden in my closet are several journals filled with passed thoughts, fears, passions and yearnings. However, during the last couple of years I stopped writing. Fortunately for me, you have inspired me to explore and examine my thoughts again. Thank you. Hopefully my rantings have not been too radical for your taste.
Your thoughts?
-glagar
(ephemeral)