In chapter ten of A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway wrote, “You are so brave and quiet, I forget that you are suffering.”
I have been accused of being both and I know myself to be neither of those things. I often say, I have everything I need and some of what I want. Again, a lie. I have overheard talk that I have a steady foundation physically, emotionally and financially. Again, not one of those things are true.
And to emphasize the annoyance I have at these lies told about me, it is often those who experience the same discord as I who accuse me of these positive attributes.
The fact of the matter is, I struggle daily internally and externally. I struggle with things that ultimately are my doing and some things over which I have no control.
The pagans would celebrate getting through the winter by feasting on the food remaining in their stores and warming themselves in the ardor of the remnants of collected firewood.
In recent days my goals have been little more than to get to the next sunrise.
If the hearth in a home is a full wall of stone to resonate heat and provide nourishment, I am heating my home with a hot plate.
But I wake every day and I juggle what I have to satisfy some needs and provide some wants.
Today would be my father's birthday if he was alive still to eat cake with me. Every year on his birthday when I would extend the happy... he would respond, “It's a good thing you got me this year. You don't know if I'll be here next.”
He struggled with his sunrises every day until he died. He constantly worried about paying the bills and providing food for his family. He worked his ass off in shift work and was under the misconception that he had a high paying job with close personal friends who would step in and support him when he needed it. He was a police officer. And I will not detail the special sect of the department in which he worked, but it was a rough job. He returned daily with a detachment from the home in which I grew up. And now, I understand he was struggling to get through his day to the next sunrise so he could just continue the struggle.
Presently I am struggling with my own ability to provide for my family. I am finding less tolerance for all the things [physically, financially and emotionally] that I cannot provide them. I find myself wanting the flexibility to decide when I work and have barked the value I place on my time with the intention of being compensated accordingly to no greater wage. I find myself reflecting on my health and my possessions and my emotional well-being, finding I am in no different a position today than I was the day I left my parent's home. And yet I wake every day and ask each one of my children what they need for the day ahead to assure they have it. And I find their wants and do my best to provide them as well.
And I think, to what purpose? We all lie in the same size box at the end of our lives. And if I have lived half way through mine without any peace of mind, then why should I not continue to struggle and juggle just as my father did?
But it's not fair is it? It's not fair to anyone around me who deserves the warmth and nourishment of a hearth when all I am using is a hot plate. When I worked with children, I would tell them to share their light. A candlelight shared with unlit wick does not diminish the original light; it brightens the room. I understand that I have to share my light. Some days just seem to contain so many unexpected torrents, it's all I can do to keep that candle lit until sunrise.
I have been accused of being both and I know myself to be neither of those things. I often say, I have everything I need and some of what I want. Again, a lie. I have overheard talk that I have a steady foundation physically, emotionally and financially. Again, not one of those things are true.
And to emphasize the annoyance I have at these lies told about me, it is often those who experience the same discord as I who accuse me of these positive attributes.
The fact of the matter is, I struggle daily internally and externally. I struggle with things that ultimately are my doing and some things over which I have no control.
The pagans would celebrate getting through the winter by feasting on the food remaining in their stores and warming themselves in the ardor of the remnants of collected firewood.
In recent days my goals have been little more than to get to the next sunrise.
If the hearth in a home is a full wall of stone to resonate heat and provide nourishment, I am heating my home with a hot plate.
But I wake every day and I juggle what I have to satisfy some needs and provide some wants.
Today would be my father's birthday if he was alive still to eat cake with me. Every year on his birthday when I would extend the happy... he would respond, “It's a good thing you got me this year. You don't know if I'll be here next.”
He struggled with his sunrises every day until he died. He constantly worried about paying the bills and providing food for his family. He worked his ass off in shift work and was under the misconception that he had a high paying job with close personal friends who would step in and support him when he needed it. He was a police officer. And I will not detail the special sect of the department in which he worked, but it was a rough job. He returned daily with a detachment from the home in which I grew up. And now, I understand he was struggling to get through his day to the next sunrise so he could just continue the struggle.
Presently I am struggling with my own ability to provide for my family. I am finding less tolerance for all the things [physically, financially and emotionally] that I cannot provide them. I find myself wanting the flexibility to decide when I work and have barked the value I place on my time with the intention of being compensated accordingly to no greater wage. I find myself reflecting on my health and my possessions and my emotional well-being, finding I am in no different a position today than I was the day I left my parent's home. And yet I wake every day and ask each one of my children what they need for the day ahead to assure they have it. And I find their wants and do my best to provide them as well.
And I think, to what purpose? We all lie in the same size box at the end of our lives. And if I have lived half way through mine without any peace of mind, then why should I not continue to struggle and juggle just as my father did?
But it's not fair is it? It's not fair to anyone around me who deserves the warmth and nourishment of a hearth when all I am using is a hot plate. When I worked with children, I would tell them to share their light. A candlelight shared with unlit wick does not diminish the original light; it brightens the room. I understand that I have to share my light. Some days just seem to contain so many unexpected torrents, it's all I can do to keep that candle lit until sunrise.
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