The sound of silence surrounds me, creating a bubble of aloneness that can be intimidating or foster a sense of creativity – that is my choice. I listen for an internal cue, a clue to “what’s next?” The wind, seen more that heard, establishes itself by the swaying trees and the movement of the light rain on my window blown rather than falling onto the chilly pane.The ticking clock inflames and singes the wings of my spirit as I attempt to get past the burning embers and leaping flames toward the center of my being, toward that illusive tree of light that always seems blocked each time I feel convinced that I can reach out and pluck its fruits of peace, harmony and happiness.
They seem forbidden fruit for me as plans, dreams and aspirations melt into watery nothingness, dictated by uncontrollable circumstances dripping, melting away before one’s very eyes. However, as I contemplate my singed wings and weakened spirit, I realize that there is one thing that I love, even as I refuse to recognize depression and the “woe is me” syndrome, I know that I love to write. As nothing else has worked, is writing my “gift?” Is writing my path to the fruit of the light for me? Have I finally awakened to the realization of what has been the calling of my spirit all along?
As I contemplate this past year and the impact One Silken Shoe, the blog, has had on my life, I am amazed that a moment of illogical logic when I tossed a beloved shoe in the trash could become this baby that I now lovingly nourish and care for in the form of the written word.
I write in silence most times as any sound, other than that of silence, including soft music, which used to have a calming effect on me, is distracting when I’m delving into my inner most thoughts regarding my life, what it has been, where it is now and where it may be headed. And, of course, the latter is the most unknowable. However, in asking myself why about the past, and why the paths I chose, who knows what a different choice would have made in my living? My friend, Paul, has a way of dealing with even the most catastrophic of life’s events; he always says, “What is, is.” In Paul’s eyes, we must get over the whining, the tears and the blaming, just acceptance and then move forward toward a better future.
In silence and acceptance after all these years, and in honor of my creation, my baby, One Silken Shoe, and wherever it leads me (or not), I will remember with no regret, “What is, is.”