“One of the tasks of true friendship is to listen compassionately and creatively to the hidden silences. Often secrets are not revealed in words, they lie concealed in the silence between the words or in the depth of what is unsayable between two people.” ~ John O’Donohue
“The beauty that emerges from woundedness is a beauty infused with feeling; a beauty different from the beauty of landscape and the cold perfect form. This is a beauty that has suffered its way through the ache of desolation until the words or music emerged to equal the hunger and desperation at its heart. It must also be said that not all woundedness succeeds in finding its way through to beauty of form. Most woundedness remains hidden, lost inside forgotten silence. Indeed, in every life there is some wound that continues to weep secretly, even after years of attempted healing. Where woundedness can be refined into beauty a wonderful transfiguration takes place.” ~ John O’Donohue
Perhaps selfish . . . but I have been drawn lately to a bit of introspection, during which I find myself reviewing my inner wounds of the soul. May I call it recapitulation? Thanks, yer a pal. Restating a theme in a musical composition, repetition of a process during growth and/or development. Stuff like that; two examples, one from music and one from biology. When you get right down to it I am a Druid at heart. I most often see this world as an expression of music, of a song. Oran Mór. The Great Melody. From which flows the world. Imagine that. I’m talking about redundancy, with purpose. It’s not so much learning from past mistakes and triumphs, it is more like revisiting these potentially pivotal experiences and using them as jumping-off points for growth. Wounds are just such a thing. They were never meant to be a permanent anchor. At first the anchor thingy is a boon toward healing. If carried on tooooo long it all just gets in the way. Yes, I feel a song in my heart this morning. The massage last week loosened up a lot more than a few achin’ muscles and bones. My left shoulder, the impact point in my “tuck and roll” method of absorbing the firm blow of a bicycle crash, has not felt so good, so free, within memory. But the loosening up goes a lot deeper. The physical results of the massage therapy are profound in themselves. But there is another level, that released by the release of imprisoned muscle memory. That’s the good stuff. At least right now it is. Come 3 PM, after a few hours on my feet during my work shift, the physical part of the release will be most appreciated . . . and yet, the inner peace that is emerging, burgeoning, whatever, will be a silent partner in the deal. I’d call that a bargain, the best I ever had. Or something like that. I’m flushed with gratitude this morning, and basking in the music of the Universe, which sings pretty good, if I do say so myself. The cat is asleep on the bed at my side, the coffee is all gone. Maybe more, I don’t know. Surely I’ll brew a cup to take to work with me; I almost always do. Caffeine fuels commerce. But I ain’t drinkin’ no Red Bull. I’m feeling good stirrings in my heart. A day at work awaits my presence. But, did I dig too deep in today’s blog post? Nah, not really. Umberto Eco said that a writer’s duty is to observe and report. Observation of myself is always such an intriguing thing. It is interesting enough when I am being all stodgy and stuck and stuff. But now, with changes visibly stirring, it is danged near fun. What I am trying to say, perhaps, is that it is a good day. I’ll be enjoying my freshly loosened up body. I’ve got another massage session scheduled for next week. More to come, right? Right. It’s all a creative act. Yeh it is.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.