Rites of Passage

This past weekend, my middle daughter graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy...

It tuned out to be the worst day of my entire life.

Despite the fact that the occasion marked the first time in nearly a year my little quartet was all together, everything which possibly could go wrong...did. (Trust me, this is no exaggeration.) From broken zippers on brand new dresses to packing problems, financial fiascos, horrendous health, and domicile dilemma's, this--which promised to be one of the most pivotal moments in my daughter's life...

Ended in disaster.

It afforded, however, the opportunity to reflect upon the many facets of human existence. I found myself ranting at the inconveniences, the complications which arose from my new status: everyday nobody. Returning to Exeter as far less than the conquering hero was humiliating enough; therefore, the inability to fully celebrate this monumental achievement with my children was utterly devastating. Once again, I had failed them. Yet again, doom, despair, agony, and pestilence were sure to result. The world would end, we would all die in the oft-predicted heap, and "why-oh-why didn't I just buy it in the stupid hospice and have the whole thing over with?"

Still, bad grammar and all, the fate I expected did not and will not materialize--as I well knew, even during the dimmest moments. Challenges arise when least expected (or, most expected for we the incurably cynical), demanding of one the best she has to offer: courage, strength, resilience, perseverance, and honor. To strive for the best in oneself during the worst of life's disappointments is, perhaps, the truest reflection of inner beauty and grace. For perfectionists, the focus in life is so unwaveringly riveted upon success that the priceless nature of merely attempting the impossible (rather than achieving it) is overshadowed.

Once again I am reminded that the majesty of life lies in the living...

Not the avoidance...

Even when it comes to Graduation Days from...Hades.

Keep on livin', ya'll.

You Think Too Much!

"You think too much!"

How many times have I heard that one?

(Or, its sister assertion, "You're too smart for your own good!")

Perhaps I have fallen into the trap of over-analyzing anything and everything that dares cross my path. And, even though that tendency to mentally disassemble the many, varied sections of life to understand all that lies around me feeds the creative beast within, there is something to be said for setting free the more impulsive aspects of one's nature in order to absorb life. How easy it is to forget that particular sensation!

At the moments, my thoughts are directed towards the future. And the future need not be a bleak one. Not long ago, in the throes of disillusionment, I found myself dwelling on the negatives life had to offer. Its failures seemed far more significant that any promises it might hold. Failing health, disappointments in relationships, the demise of childhood dreams: these loomed above me as the bleakest yet most concrete of all actualities...

Yet, with time and clarity have come renewed optimism. It is true, I have been ill; however the recovery which was deemed irrefutably impossible now lies within reach. Granted, financial instability is a daunting presence in my current life; but, in this economy, quite a few individuals can easily say the same. One dollar lost is identical to any future dollar gained, while the true treasures of life--joy, fulfillment, contentment, achievement, peace, satisfaction, love--are truly unique: ever-changing and irreplaceable from moment to moment. Yes, I have recently experienced heartbreak; however even this came as a result of one of the deepest, truest glimpses of friendship and kindness one could ever experience. As always, the pain of loss subsides, giving way to remembered laughter, shared confidences, and images of true happiness, all of which remind me that it certainly is better to have loved and lost to have never known that particular moment of loving at all. And, I must admit, even the desire to write--though not completely restored to me--cowers in hidden corners, daring to lift a tentative glance towards the light of inspiration.

The time has come to stop over-analyzing, to stop trying to arrange my life into neat or perfect columns and rows.

I think to much.

It is time I remembered how to again simply BE.

Updated Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Additional Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Poetry

Unpainted Canvas

ISBN: 978-0-557-63112-4

(ID #9272461): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/unpainted-canvas/9272461

When the Sun Shines in Winter

ISBN: 978-0-557-63113-1

(ID #9272496): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/when-the-sun-shines-in-winter/9272496

(Coming Soon)

Poems Past: Collected Poems from Years Gone By

Literary Fiction

The Stick Woman

ISBN: 978-0-557-64209-0

(ID #9294338): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-stick-woman/9294338

Exile!!!!

ISBN: 978-0-557-63107-0

(ID #9272431): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/exile/9272431

Children’s

(Coming Soon)

As Far as the Mind Can Fathom: Fairy Tales for a New Generation

Recalling the Darkness

The searing waves crash,
Frothing, onto the soft pink sands that steam
Beneath their fiery onslaught.
Numbing, blinding this constant pummeling,
As hard, round stones sink
To press against the moist, vulnerable lining beneath,
Crushing the bruised swells of the shore.
Relentless is the tumultuous roiling
Which pries muscle from bone,
Draining the tender marrow
So that the gelid winds
Howl
Through the achingly hollowed caverns.
Oh, but that it were merciful,
Pulverizing sense and sensation
To a jellied nothingness,
Leaving the helpless shell--
Long emptied of the soft-bodied creature
Once sheltered within--
Free to float outward
Into non-existence!
Yet, no such succor does it offer,
This unending sea of pain.
On and on it flows,
Churning,
The scarlet waters hot enough to scald,
Its foam a bitter, poisonous acid,
Slowly eroding flesh, layer by layer,
Ever bubbling,
Ever burning,
Into infinity...
For an eternity.

To Live Again

How does one find her way out of the Darkness when the Light is but a distant memory?

Breathe

Isn't life--with its moments of sheer beauty, its instants of tranquility, and its fearless defiance of time and tide, of anything which dares to shape or mold its boundaries to the preset dimensions of the mundane--



...far too beautiful to waste?

Wondering

Years ago, when I was in high school, an English teacher introduced me to a famous writer, who was at that time one of my "idols."

"Watch this girl!" my professor warned. "She's going to be somebody."

Even though the words were spoken with an combination of obvious pride, unabashed sarcasm, and the unspoken admonishment against letting the words go to my head, it was the highest compliment I had ever received--primarily because I so completely admired the "giver," who was a renowned poet in her own right. Over the years, I have treasured it close to my heart, secretly vowing to fully earn that praise, to "make my mentor proud".

Over the years, I have heard similar words. I have been complimented, encouraged, praised, and even dubbed "the best writer ever" by what has to be the harshest critic ever. Still, I often find myself wondering why that isn't enough. Time and time again, I have found myself facing an individual who easily boasts that he or she is the greatest writer of all time, bar none. As a developmental editor, I have marveled at the confidence displayed by those who have had no more talent than a five-year-old drawing indecipherable doodles on construction, paper, been astounded by the humility of others who have rivaled the greats, and completely baffled by works which--without any apparent style or form whatsoever--somehow manage to so completely capture the unique tones and timbres of the writer's voice that they draw in the reader as no other could. Still, the longer I write, the more I surround myself with truly exceptional writing, the more convinced I am that no greater glory exists than composing something of true literary value, regardless of its notoriety among men or its acceptance by the so-called experts of the time.

Could any praise, any approbation, any amount of affirmation or success rival the simple knowledge that one has, in a lifetime, completed that one piece he or she was born to write?

And does any artist, any writer ever recognize that defining moment if and when she reaches it?