"I love you, and think of you often, but you have no way of knowing that unless I tell you, do you?" She was answering my concern that I had offended her as an explanation for why I hadn’t heard from her in months. I can’t get this out of my mind. I suppose it was all about my insecurity. Yet, if we don’t let one another know that we care, how are we to thrive, or even survive? Toss a pebble in the water and look.
In Texas I live in a rural place, separated by many miles from a town of any size. Someone has suggested that I probably spend way too much time inside myself. Place might not be that big a factor, however. Even when in the middle of the city, I am this same duck. Although I enjoy the company of others, I don’t feel a need to be immersed in the swim of human interaction. In Texas I see my oldest sister just about every day, although we give each other plenty of space. I talk to my middle sister ever so often. We were brought up in a close-knit family. I guess I felt safe and happy there, although even as a child I was puzzled by life, and sometimes afraid, especially of the unknown, and even then, especially of what I have recognized for a long time now as “man’s inhumanity to man”, especially what I understood to be directed toward me because I was a “mama’s boy”.
It’s a little funny and a little sad the things that frighten us as children. There are the obvious things, like the dark. Many adults are afraid of the dark as well. Out here on these 200 acres when at dusk I hear the howling-yipping of Coyote, I sense no threat. Yet I wouldn't wander into the thicketed woods in search of this choral cry, for more reasons than Coyote. Awakened in the night, though, I sometimes wonder if what I heard was part of the dream. Is someone at the bottom of the stairs...did I hear the screendoor on the porch? It could have been the icemaker dropping cubes. I remember one time in particular as a small child waking my parents in the middle of the night. Had I been dreaming, or had I been thinking in the dark about the end of the world. I couldn’t wrap my young mind around the frightening idea that someday, even the small reality I knew would go away forever—Forever. The seeds of hell, fire, and brimstone had already been planted in my brain from an overwrought, hand-wringing preacher in a Southern Baptist Church. My small reality has suffered permanent loss with the death of our parents, and so many more people, kin and not, who have been a part of my life. That night as my parents comforted me—loved me—I remember Daddy commenting that his youngest sister didn’t like talking about the end of the world, didn’t like hearing sermons on the resurrection. While no less afraid, I suppose I was at least reassured.
Recently, over lunch, a friend who lives an hour away was relating a story about someone who grew up with in a family where the love of the parent was indeed about reward and punishment—“which is not love,” she added. I often recall the words of a friend from 30 years ago. Parents do the best they can, according to Rachel. Parents do not look at a child in the crib and say “I’m going to fuck you up.” As we’ve gotten older, my sisters and I are each our own little odd creature. Since our mother’s death a year ago we’ve had plenty need and plenty occasions to talk honestly about matters, and more importantly, about ourselves. All in our 60s, we have more than a little motivation to figure things out and to exercise our sibling love, while we have the chance.
In this rural place I am blessed to have regular contact with a couple of friends. Mostly, though, I am a solitary figure. I can’t imagine life without email and access to the Internet. Even though I have enough real work to keep me busy seven days a week, I piddle through most days, doing a little work here and there, worrying about what I’m not getting done but trying to learn not to worry so much. Even though some might think my ways a bit curmudgeon-like at times, even though I do cherish time alone, and even though I am a card-carrying quasi-introvert, I am also a gregarious animal. I just need to re-fuel myself regularly. I need time to think and reflect on my little reality, tinker and piddle, and actually, I need to let other people know about my love for them.
For those who are involved somehow in constant relationships—whether raising a family, empty-nester spouses, partnered, or those prone to thriving in flocks—the opportunities to express love daily are rich. We solitary creatures might have a little tougher go of it. Practice makes perfect. Many are separated by distance—both real and perceived—from those they love. For love to grow strong, it must be exercised. And we all need to be told ever so often that we are loved. We also need to do the telling, and more importantly, the showing. We need to say, “I love you,” and we need to remember that we are both blessed by love and that our active love is a blessing to others.
From what I understand, we all have those middle-of-the-night sessions where we awake, and before we can get back to sleep we start worrying over our perceived problems and failures, actual dilemmas and conflicts, crises of self-confidence, real challenges and concerns about what’s down the road, both for ourselves and for those we love. Surely that happens to more than just a few of us.
A few months ago, a little prayer of sorts was born in my brain—in the middle of the night. I didn’t have to think about it too much. Mostly, it just happened.
In the night, I understand.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Can this be? Yes.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Yet I wrest. Stop.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Let me fall. Get up.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
I am wrong. No.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
In the day, my heart divides.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Come share this bread. Tell me.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
I love you. I love you.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Sometimes when I am awake at 2:09 a.m., worrying, of course, I say to myself, “I am blessed, I am blessing”. Sometimes I am calmed, but other times it is a struggle to find that place in me where peace-love waits patiently. I grapple with my laundry list of perceived problems and failures, actual dilemmas and conflicts, crises of self-confidence, real challenges and concerns about what’s down the road, both for me and for those I love. I say to myself, “I am blessed, I am blessing”. We can’t say enough about love. It is a blessing. For as long any of us might live, try as we might, we won’t finish defining it, either for ourselves or for the world. I know. You’ve worked it out, got it figured out. For you, love has spoken.
Love Spoken—Normangee, Texas (February 17, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
In Texas I live in a rural place, separated by many miles from a town of any size. Someone has suggested that I probably spend way too much time inside myself. Place might not be that big a factor, however. Even when in the middle of the city, I am this same duck. Although I enjoy the company of others, I don’t feel a need to be immersed in the swim of human interaction. In Texas I see my oldest sister just about every day, although we give each other plenty of space. I talk to my middle sister ever so often. We were brought up in a close-knit family. I guess I felt safe and happy there, although even as a child I was puzzled by life, and sometimes afraid, especially of the unknown, and even then, especially of what I have recognized for a long time now as “man’s inhumanity to man”, especially what I understood to be directed toward me because I was a “mama’s boy”.
It’s a little funny and a little sad the things that frighten us as children. There are the obvious things, like the dark. Many adults are afraid of the dark as well. Out here on these 200 acres when at dusk I hear the howling-yipping of Coyote, I sense no threat. Yet I wouldn't wander into the thicketed woods in search of this choral cry, for more reasons than Coyote. Awakened in the night, though, I sometimes wonder if what I heard was part of the dream. Is someone at the bottom of the stairs...did I hear the screendoor on the porch? It could have been the icemaker dropping cubes. I remember one time in particular as a small child waking my parents in the middle of the night. Had I been dreaming, or had I been thinking in the dark about the end of the world. I couldn’t wrap my young mind around the frightening idea that someday, even the small reality I knew would go away forever—Forever. The seeds of hell, fire, and brimstone had already been planted in my brain from an overwrought, hand-wringing preacher in a Southern Baptist Church. My small reality has suffered permanent loss with the death of our parents, and so many more people, kin and not, who have been a part of my life. That night as my parents comforted me—loved me—I remember Daddy commenting that his youngest sister didn’t like talking about the end of the world, didn’t like hearing sermons on the resurrection. While no less afraid, I suppose I was at least reassured.
Recently, over lunch, a friend who lives an hour away was relating a story about someone who grew up with in a family where the love of the parent was indeed about reward and punishment—“which is not love,” she added. I often recall the words of a friend from 30 years ago. Parents do the best they can, according to Rachel. Parents do not look at a child in the crib and say “I’m going to fuck you up.” As we’ve gotten older, my sisters and I are each our own little odd creature. Since our mother’s death a year ago we’ve had plenty need and plenty occasions to talk honestly about matters, and more importantly, about ourselves. All in our 60s, we have more than a little motivation to figure things out and to exercise our sibling love, while we have the chance.
In this rural place I am blessed to have regular contact with a couple of friends. Mostly, though, I am a solitary figure. I can’t imagine life without email and access to the Internet. Even though I have enough real work to keep me busy seven days a week, I piddle through most days, doing a little work here and there, worrying about what I’m not getting done but trying to learn not to worry so much. Even though some might think my ways a bit curmudgeon-like at times, even though I do cherish time alone, and even though I am a card-carrying quasi-introvert, I am also a gregarious animal. I just need to re-fuel myself regularly. I need time to think and reflect on my little reality, tinker and piddle, and actually, I need to let other people know about my love for them.
For those who are involved somehow in constant relationships—whether raising a family, empty-nester spouses, partnered, or those prone to thriving in flocks—the opportunities to express love daily are rich. We solitary creatures might have a little tougher go of it. Practice makes perfect. Many are separated by distance—both real and perceived—from those they love. For love to grow strong, it must be exercised. And we all need to be told ever so often that we are loved. We also need to do the telling, and more importantly, the showing. We need to say, “I love you,” and we need to remember that we are both blessed by love and that our active love is a blessing to others.
From what I understand, we all have those middle-of-the-night sessions where we awake, and before we can get back to sleep we start worrying over our perceived problems and failures, actual dilemmas and conflicts, crises of self-confidence, real challenges and concerns about what’s down the road, both for ourselves and for those we love. Surely that happens to more than just a few of us.
A few months ago, a little prayer of sorts was born in my brain—in the middle of the night. I didn’t have to think about it too much. Mostly, it just happened.
In the night, I understand.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Can this be? Yes.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Yet I wrest. Stop.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Let me fall. Get up.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
I am wrong. No.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
In the day, my heart divides.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Come share this bread. Tell me.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
I love you. I love you.
I am blessed, I am blessing.
Sometimes when I am awake at 2:09 a.m., worrying, of course, I say to myself, “I am blessed, I am blessing”. Sometimes I am calmed, but other times it is a struggle to find that place in me where peace-love waits patiently. I grapple with my laundry list of perceived problems and failures, actual dilemmas and conflicts, crises of self-confidence, real challenges and concerns about what’s down the road, both for me and for those I love. I say to myself, “I am blessed, I am blessing”. We can’t say enough about love. It is a blessing. For as long any of us might live, try as we might, we won’t finish defining it, either for ourselves or for the world. I know. You’ve worked it out, got it figured out. For you, love has spoken.
Love Spoken—Normangee, Texas (February 17, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
1 comment:
Our mutual friend, Sheri, led me to your blog and I found this post to be truly amazing.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, I look forward to reading your older posts-
Casey Pacheco
(yes, just like your street in Santa Fe)
Post a Comment