Suffering Through the Moment

"Words have little meaning, their resonance in ideas."

A friend of mine wrote these words not long ago, when I was at a low point: enduring what seemed, at the time, unendurable pain. As I tried to put into perspective all that was happening to and around me, it was difficult not to ponder the significance of suffering in our world. Be it physical, mental, emotional, or psychological, the pain which can infiltrate mind, body, or soul is very real. And, at this very moment, as I concentrate on the carefully honed process of separating my mind--my Self--from the agony now (once again)wracking my body, I find myself praying that he was right: that if I am able to, as he advised, place myself apart from or outside of my discomfort, and "foster more curiosity than [I] ever thought [I]had," I might actually catch that glimmer of light or understanding, hope, Truth, or insight which will transform what seems to be needless physical suffering into some state, some place in which it is no longer some viciously, gnawing thing I have to endure...but rather that Being I can become, venturing into these sensations and then finding those spaces within myself that are not comprised of, consumed by the ravages of pain but defined by the very act of knowing that there is something to be learned, discovered by having explored the deeper implications of just recognizing how this has all defined me, in this moment, as this entity I am now but will never again be.

(Or maybe I'll just find out the Green-Eyed, Silver-Tongued Con Artist didn't know what the devil he was talking about!)

Thank You, Sunshine

When my mother died in February of 2006, I spent many a night asking myself if all that she was--all that she had the potential to be--had died with her. A few months later, I found myself discussing a similar topic with someone who would later become a very dear friend indeed. He and I spoke about our individual longings, pondering the question of whether one truly could "follow his [or her] heart. Of late, I have found myself lying in bed tormented by the question of whether my mother, Ms. Katie, was aware of the impact she made upon this world in her brief seventy-four year occupation upon it...and if my own four decades have by any means impacted upon this same world in any positive way.

This past week, I have been fortunate enough to have had the encouragement of someone I both admire and trust. And, he has assured me that my presence--as a person and a writer--made some small difference in his life. Realistically, it is more than feasible that he would only say as much to bring succor to me during this time, when my fate is uncertain and my future, ultimately, bleak. (After all, I have had the sinking suspicion on more than one occasion that this particular "friend" is more than capable of telling a whopper of a tall tale when it suits his purposes!) Even so, the fact that I now sit furiously scribbling the words forming in my hazy recesses of my oxygen-starved brain tells me that I have been given at least the hope that if I do depart from this Earth in the near future, my time here was not completely wasted.

My mother may not have had that assurance.

For that very reason, I am all the more grateful that someone took the time to make sure that I have.

Waiting

One of the most difficult aspects of what I do--at least to my way of thinking--is the waiting. I wait for my computer to boot up, wait for inspiration, wait for rejection or acceptance letters, wait for clients to either call me or return my calls, wait for responses to my comments or corrections (when editing), and then...wait for my paycheck!

Grrrrrrrr!!!!

This day finds me waiting a response to an e-mail I quite hesitantly posted earlier this afternoon. A very dear friend is making his first foray into the world of published writing after years in the public eye. When I took on (or,more accurately: wheedled, cajoled,pestered, and demanded) the wondrous and fulfilling task of completing an "unofficial" pre-edit (my term for a process--my personal specialty--I often implement when dealing with many clients, by which the content of the work itself goes untouched while the grammatical, syntactical, and other structural aspects of the writing are corrected, after which, the client to opt for the next stage of the editorial process), I found myself absolutely enchanted by not only the manuscripts themselves but his unique style of writing: so much so, in fact, that I threw myself into the project, adding advice and services that I had not before intended to offer. As life would have it,unfortunately, circumstances led to a long silence between us, and I held no place in his life for several months. Only yesterday did he present me with the "final -final" edit of his young adult manuscript...

And I was faced with a moral, personal and professional dilemma.

As always, the writing itself was breathtaking, as were the ideas and imagery conveyed within this imaginative and unique story he had woven.

The grammar, in places was horrible.

Having gone into this matter with my eyes open--convinced that my personal feelings would indubitably diminish my objectivity with regards to the work--I had always accepted (and, indeed, preferred) to view the project as a favor for a friend, encouraging him--as such--at every juncture to consult (but not sacrifice his creative voice to) his own editor or literary agent. Because of this "hands off" approach, I have no idea who is assisting him in this venture...or to what degree. My concern, however,is that he might, by those without his best interests at heart, be steered into very troubling directions.

Then again, what right do I have--having kept a decided and deliberate distance from the creative process--to bulldoze my way into it now?

(On the other hand, as a friend and fellow writer, under what obligation am I to do everything in my power to make sure his project is the best it can be, the he has the best chance for success possible?)

It's all too much for this little Louisiana/Cherokee girl to handle.

So here I sit...

Waiting...

To see what course of action he will or not take, if my advice will wreck an already precarious relationship, to hear his response, for that bolt from the blue which will impart upon me some great--and before unknown--wisdom and discernment...

Waiting, essentially, for his response to my response....

Where does friendship end and professionalism begin?

And, for once in my life, should I simply keep my big mouth shut?

My Best Friend

My best friend's eyes are brilliant blue,
And in them, I see bits of sea,
Of sky,
Of my inmost Self
Reflected.


His voice,
And mine,
Seem to resonate in vibrant sameness...

Yet,
I am wondering
If this oneness is but an illusion
Born of deep longings,
Foolish fears,
Wishful thinking,
And a need to love,
And be loved,
When Love--in reality--
Is Absent.