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Fleeting moments of unadulterated silence


Fleeting moments

Fleeting moments

We have been given a late summer this year, yet my heart isn’t letting go of winter peels.
Joy struggles in the shadows, planning an escape that bounces off the walls of life. Of the mind.

Happiness is truly within.

Sun might enhance the rainbows of our soul, like contrast adding sharpness to a photo defining its contours but it isn’t the essential ingredient.

Yet, I inherently know delight lies in wait, lurks around the corner. A lifetime doesn’t vanish into oblivion.

I slow my pace in all good summer tradition, setting aside guilt (for imposing my will to those around me) living days moment by moment, listening to the pulses of nature, savouring every sound, celebrating the notion of nothingness surprised by the calmness that proceeds, appreciating the wonders of wildlife accompanying us wherever we are, on a daily basis gone unnoticed…

We are born to think motion is the only motor of survival, the only form of sanity but we forget to retire for a while from the hubbub to calm the nervous energy that comes with it.

We still have more than a month left. I know this might last no longer than the ink absorbed unto this page but I won’t forget so easily those fleeting moments of unadulterated silence & invite you to do the same 🙂

P.s
A very pleasant summer to you all!!

Where there is absence of noise, silence goes unappreciated.


16.5.2014 (2)-a-1-

Those words popped into my mind this morning when silence was as thick as knee deep snow & as deafening as nature before a tsunami.
No-thing interrupted its vacuousness. There was no possible way of measuring it. That is when I realised that whenever I wrote about the quietude peaceful spots provide us with, it involved a symphony with brief in-betweens.
The sea being among my favourites, roars many seasons a year. Intervals minimal in comparison with its rambunctious charm.
I remembered the poem & essay I had written a while back, on silence too.
All involved a lot of noise.
The poem was literally crackling with outdoor’s natural interruptions & “Fiat Silentium” was about distant noises magnifying the cocoon of bliss I had found myself in.
Silence on its own is dead whereas accompanied becomes an entity. Each & everything on this planet comes chaperoned, hence, the expression “it’s a package deal”. People,objects,circumstances,emotions… I haven’t yet seen anything shining without a contrast or a system of support sustaining its light.
Silence goes very far where noise is concerned… 😉

Have a great noisy week!
You can check the posts I mentioned if you feel like it…
https://oawritingspoemspaintings.wordpress.com/2014/04/04/through-noise-do-we-decipher-silence/#comments
https://oawritingspoemspaintings.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/and-there-was-silence-fiat-lux/

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In the act of writing March 2011


Eiffel tower wheels ©copyright2013owpp

Eiffel tower wheels
©copyright2013owpp

This essay was one of my assignments and was written in a tongue-in-cheek manner,
I do not take myself that seriously 🙂 It was about describing oneself in the act
of writing, which I called just that…

In the act of writing
—————–

I usually prepare an assignment long in advance.
Plotting, collecting information, mincing, digesting the style that is about to be born.
Yet, today, I come as ludicrously bare as can be.
I stare at a white immaculate sheet of paper and ponder at the outrageous idea of writing, as a working exercise, as opposed to a burst of fervid passion.
Or, to the growth of my imagination spilling forth in an overflow.
I am surrounded by dictionaries and thesauruses of all kind that, I trust, will unravel the mysteries of words and impel me to the creation of a literary magnificence.
Gilded rays of a timid autumn sun pierce through the remote glass window door, of the balcony, maintaining this room in perpetual darkness, keeping its occupants in sempiternal slumber throughout the seasons of the years.
Nevertheless, I find my mind juggling with phraseology, feeling like a choreographer bearing the conception of a chef-d’oeuvre.
I amalgate ideas, terms, observations and philosophies, in anticipation of a new era…
The creation of my magnum opus.
Hours slide by, in the stimulating atmosphere of reflection and contemplation and I see, merging from the profundity and intricacies of my brain, the outlines of what seems the sketches of an essay.
The gratification of my labor.
I hold dearly unto my chain of thoughts hushing anyone daring any resemblance of vicinity.
I toil away, inching my way through the haze and vasty of language, aware of a day coming to its end, as the sun retrieves its warmth, preparing itself to enlighten another part of the planet’s obscurities.
I close the chapter at its culmination, satisfied by the denouement, at peace by its genesis and in synchronization with the heartbeats of the universe.
I look around and become aware, au fait of stepping out of a different dimension.

All is still.

Everyone having left me to my occupations and busy with theirs, outdoors.
I am surprised to observe the constant rebirth of my soul at the completion of what I fantasize, is

the emergence of my prodigy 🙂

The past of a very dark day. Sep. 2012 ( Oa essay )


©copyright2013owpp

©copyright2013owpp

This is a article I should remember to read when my abstinence quivers or doubts.
Am I glad we don’t have many moments like these in our lives!
There is truly, nothing that tastes better than abstinence.

Dark moment
——————

People usually die once. I have died a few deaths and keep on doing so.
Occasionally, I come back to the living, but end it off, of my own accord.

Some have others torturing them. A partner, husband, friend, colleague… I am privileged. I have my own torturer. ME.
I destroy myself. I am my worst enemy. I attack myself, by stuffing my body with food I don’t even desire or savor. Always in search of some taste bud-thrill, that will entertain my pallet a while longer.
It is a food-rage. It kills my soul, bit by bit. I have gone a thousand times to hell and back. Now, nothing seems to bring me home. I am spiraling downwards and speed my fall by letting go of all the ropes. No relief in sight.
Pain is the only feeling that visits my solitude.
This “ now “ is not the companion I was looking for. I try to shake it off but it sticks to my ego, my famous ego. You know, the one that takes so much space, there is no room for beauty. Just trouble.
I have been told to let go of it and have tried but do not know how.
My journey could have been uneventful had I known the secret but, my ego has a long life or maybe seven lives, like the cats, is it not what they say?
So, I resign myself to my cycle of suffering and despair yet in the hope of getting another glance at a paradise I have lived and left in a nearly forgotten past…

The one that people call with a moan and a sigh… LIFE.

Reaction to post ” Holidays plan of action ” and crazy food thoughts


©opyright2013owpp

©opyright2013owpp

My post of ” Holidays plan of action ” lead to a written conversation on the topic of crazy thoughts,
which I am posting today for all the ones interested and concerned about the subject.

My answer to crazy thoughts is as I said, getting busy with something I am passionate about.

Crazy thoughts happen when I’m bored, ( boredom can occur when busy at work too ) which brings
dissatisfaction with myself and life. When nothing other than food fills my mind, I have
to replace it with the good things I have been busy with eg.
my aspirations which I can call a diversion for anyone with a compulsion for, anything ranging from
food to any other substance. I am obviously speaking on a very wide range and understand some recoveries
implicate strong physical reactions.
Oh! I forgot!
They come when I don’t respect my three meal plan either and go hungry.

Yes, we do have to appreciate what oa brings to anyone, searching their way to fulfillment, happiness and serenity,
the wisdom found there ( at least I found it through my sponsor who is an exceptionally worked upon person ) is humongous
but we have to remember that, bottom line, it’s up to us to make it work should it be through prayer, art, sports or any
other tool
we find to alleviate our craze. Writing is for me one of them, that was part of MY program plan, each one has to find theirs.

There is a risk of codependency if we cannot do that. In the end, program is all about recovery, that is the aim, so if a person
finds it through any way that suites him/her, that is the goal and all is perfect in the best of worlds 🙂

Having said that, we still have to go on being aware of signs coming up, act immediately and accordingly so as not to encourage
the old pattern to come back and take its previously comfortable place. Hence, the need to keep the new habits thriving.

Oa is a good place to be, but we just have to encourage our autonomy so, as not to, out of desperation turn it into despondency.
Which is what I was doing before discovering the wonders of blogging. ( Writing and painting became a more intensive practice as a
result rather than a desperate urge to express myself )

Sponsoring

Sponsoring

I will always be indebted to my sponsor, she has all my admiration for the wholehearted, loving, selflessly-giving person she is.
I am eternally grateful for the hours she spent pouring love and wisdom unto my eager but still apprenticed soul.

Having reached another level I feel she can be my friend and confidant which is a beautiful and unique thing to have in life.

This is not something that comes along every day and I probably wouldn’t have wanted it with anyone else.

I am thankful she was put upon my path and wishes anyone out there reading this post, to find someone as special as her 😉

Resumé on Thoreau’s essay ” Walking ” 2010


1860s 1861 Portrait of older Henry David Thoreau, American poet - kopie - kopie

Hi everyone!

Part of my lit. studies included reading ” Walking ” from Henri David Thoreau, Which was hard to read
as it’s heavy philosophy, then write a resumé on it which I’d like to share with you.

I nevertheless was introduced that way, to quality writing and the classics which turned me into a big fan!
I found his chain of thoughts to be so rich, one could read it over and over again without tiring and
experience different emotions every time.
Every line has to be studied. One can, through this essay learn and cultivate the love for words.
It’s intellectually stimulating and challenging.
It’s no wonder it was part of the curriculum, I’m truly glad to have been given this opportunity to
discover such an outstanding writer.

I hope you’ll enjoy it, let me know!

—————————–

Henry D. Thoreau starts his essay ” Walking ” with the simple wish to be, nature’s advocate, with the
controversial idea that man is alone with it and not part of an entity.

While he’s walking he observes, reflects and ruminates profoundly on many aspect of nature and fundamental
human concerns.

Walking for Thoreau is more than that. It’s an exercise of the brain. It stimulates his intellect. It’s where
he digs out all the material needed for his profession. Walking for him, is what an airplane is for an aviator
or, an arrow for a bushman.

Walden pond Concord Massachusetts

Walden pond Concord Massachusetts

It has given him the possibility to produce the most exquisite piece of poetry called ” The Malborough Road. ”
Being confined to an office would’ve never given him that possibility.

Along the essay we find him, broaching a wide range of subjects.
He starts with the actual directions he prefers and why. Southwest or eastward, goes on to the botanists, panoramas
with a detailed geographical description, which he is not presently experiencing but reminiscing.
That’s how we understand his Essay to be ” a walk through his imagination “.

As he goes on, he writes about animals. it is very descriptive and poetical. He glorifies the things others take for
granted. He comes to know along the way, that nature is above all. It’s the kernel, it’s vital for our survival.
We should be blending, melting, into nature and not vice versa. The core is mother nature and we are its servants.

Nature, under his ballpoint ( or more likely, his quill pen in those days 🙂 ) takes another dimension.
One can feel and sense it being practically a religion, so intense it is. One falls in love with nature all over again and would like to immerse oneself in it and find the tranquility and beauty felt in the reading.

The cabin

The cabin

In, what I call, the ninth part ( we’ve been asked to break it up into major parts ) he brings up, literature. One can observe how he
” provokes ” the reader into controversial ideas once again. That is, what makes it his style, his signature.
It forces its readers admiration, for such strong and idealistic views.

There is not a thing, he doesn’t have an opinion on.
Should it be, music which he airs briefly, names which is another amazing piece of this brilliant essay, where he describes
the ” un-importance ” of it, which again is contrary to all received ideas.

Institutions, culture, studies… You name it.
He triggers people’s minds into thinking. He ” stings ” them out of their complacent torpor, with,

I quote:

” Give me a culture which imports much muck from the meadows… ” and further ” I would not have every man nor every part of a man cultivated…”

When he proceeds later on to write about knowledge and ignorance, once more we find him spurring us on, to ideas as ” useful
ignorance ” and ” conceit in knowledge ” then humors us farther with,

I quote:

” I would say to the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge, sometimes, — Go to grass. ”

Laws and obedience seems disdained when he says ” There’s is something SERVILE in the habit of seeking after a law which we may obey. ”
Then, we understand it was intended purposefully when he adds ” Live free, child of the mist — and with respect to knowledge we are
all children of the mist. ”
He then shocks us into ” The man who takes the liberty to live is superior to all laws… ”

Borders and earth are his last two topics where he finishes his essay in total splendor and grandness.
Check for yourselves and let me know!

Till next time!

Can we erase confusion and lead a fulfilling life? 2009


The beginning of dawn... ©copyright2013owpp

The beginning of dawn…
©copyright2013owpp

Quiet is what they called him
——————————-

He wished he could start his essay as Scott R. Sanders had. With ” My father drank… ” Those circumstances were  clear cut. However confusing it
will always be for a child, ( To say the least ) Scott knew more or less, where he stood.

Mark’s father, never drank. He was a self-erased man. A man people would call, ” quiet “. As quiet as a mouse hiding in his hole from the big white
cat’s claws.

A self-imposed cat.

Robert,( his father ) was a shadow, moving silently, going in and out of his house, about his business, never acknowledging nor muttering a polite greeting.
He was absorbed in his tortured sickly thoughts, obsessed by negativity, doom and gloom.
As children, Mark, a frail blond boy, and his siblings, never had much contact with Robert. He was there but wasn’t. He officially was their father,
but wasn’t either. In their eyes and heart, he didn’t matter much.
He probably had, what you’d call today, ” an alcoholic personality “.

Thinking of it, Mark could count on his fingers, the playful moments, shared with him. Those moments, fooled them, into believing, happiness was within their reach. Those same moments confused and blurred their senses of right and wrong.

Cruelty became kindness, compassion. It was justified, was a consequence of their acts. Was legitimate. It was teaching, molding them into correctly-behaving
adults.
Kindness became twisted with Robert and Anna’s ( Mark’s mother ) guilt.
It showed ugly, tortured faces. It wore sometimes, the mask of truth, the dented grin of uneasiness. The inadequacy of their love, made the children cringe
and retreat with disgust, hate, love, a load of question marks and riddles, burning into their hearts, engraving their souls, marked by a burning rod, as a cattle to his master.

Belonging yet fighting for an identity as for a lost cause. Trying to disown their loaded past, but confronted time and again, after long periods of comfort
and peace, as with this essay ” Under the influence “.
This essay had opened Mark’s wounds. It had opened his conscience. It had woken him up after long years of slumber. It had given him, the possibility, to write down, on a pure white page, the long dreaded words. The words, that would kill, hurt him to the core, and label his past, in a way, where retreat into denial,
wouldn’t be an option anymore.
It would throw him into finality, into acceptance. There’d be no going back. No way of waking up into some kind of fantasy. No room for doubt. None, for the hope
of mistake, miscalculation and yet, as painful as that was, he could say it. He could let it soak the page. Take its place and belong to a past, in order to be able to live the moment, while gazing toward the rays of a bright light and creative future.

Mark could finally say, after two pages of warming up, plucking up his courage, ” my father was violent “.

Robert, a square looking short man, went into fits of rage and manipulatively hid behind false principals as, education, religion … Whatever worked.

They lived on tender-hooks. In a make-belief. When all was quiet in the best of worlds, and life flowed on peacefully, their family appeared to belong to the
” regular ” category. But the flows were treacherous. It was a volcano in making.
They persuaded themselves into the life of their own invention yet, lived in anticipation of the next outburst. Living in a haze, a daze, with no defined lines.
They lived life without using the pair of glasses usually given to see the definitions, the colors, feel the wind, see the sun, appreciate the beauty of
handwork, a carved stone…

Their souls slept in waiting.

Never suspecting life could be a happy place to be in.

Anna, their mother, was … who she was. Hysterical, manipulative, couldn’t protect them in time of crisis and sometimes, provoked them herself. Went into fits
of rage and then tried to make it up to them by using tears and guilt as a means of patching up the shreds of their hearts, the pieces that left behind them a trail, that followed them obsessively. Which they tried to shake off but clung to them like poisonous jelly-fish. Never suspecting until this day, the impact,
her behavior had on them.

The terror, of all hell let loose.

The desperation of a child put in a situation, that was beyond salvation. Nor did Robert either. It’s only, as a much older Mark, wrote this down, did he realize,
the sheer madness of it all. They were all living then, on a time-bomb, in a pressure cooker and until this day, had not seen it.
As he wrote page after page, his throat burned, his heart ached, his eyes filled and his stomach was a painful knot. What tricked them, most of the time, he realized, was that on the surface and ” in between ” everything appeared to be normal. But what was normal? Could they compare? A child is not provided with
two homes ( unless their parents are divorced ) two sets of parents, the happy ones and the dis-functional.

Yes. Dis-functional. He had to reach a ripe age to accept that their home had not been entirely regular. It had a name he could use to define it.
Those were the first hesitant steps toward recognition and admission. It was a clinical word, as cold as a surgeon dissecting a body to get down to the causes of its death.
Because that’s what eventually happened.

As time went by, rifts widened, incomprehension seeped in, hurt crept back silently, love was still there, but was smothered by the twists, their characters had
been shaped into as a result. By the deep differences, the personalities, each sibling had taken and adopted as a mean of survival. The very few friendships that
lasted, were the ones that shook under the shock but never yielded under the weight of the wind blowing, the rage of challenge, the temporary madness of their parents, flaring up again, rearing in all its magnificent ugliness with a power stronger than they could ever recollect.

But the family as a unit, a whole, had gone forever.

It might not be doomed, it might take a lifetime to take care of its deep bruises, but its future was so shaky as a result…
Understanding or excusing his parents behavior didn’t make it easier. It didn’t shape his life any differently because it was ” explainable “. It was still there
as a witness of the past.

Mark’s father had gone through war and many difficult encounters in his past. As a young orphan, he had been confronted with the tribulations of life and left
unguided. The scars ran much deeper than suspected.
He had sympathized with his father’s pain and grief but could not be of any help as it had never been acknowledged, recognized nor worked upon. He didn’t feel it
was up to him to pick up the pieces. All he had thought at the time was, ” my world is caving in and there’s nothing I can do about it “.

The helplessness experienced by a child in a time of chaos, will always play a major role in his adult life.

Anna had been an orphan too, but at a much younger age. Her war experiences, were relatively uneventful and safer. Her relationship with her sister was, destructive
and determinant in her future role as a wife and mother. If Mark’s mothers fits of rage seemed uncontrollable to him, they paled in comparison to his aunts.
It made hers seem like hiccups or, drops of rain on a freshly polished car. It probably made her feel as light as the feathers of an angel’s wings…

Generosity, goodness, tolerance, empathy are as easily taught as cruelty, madness, manipulation or dictatorial behavior.

It was fairly easy to understand. To peel off the layers. Get down to the root, but it did not, for them, as survivors, make any lighter their load. It didn’t erase those
interminably rigid years in the wilderness. It didn’t stop Mark or his siblings, from relapsing into a frenzy of some addiction or other.
One didn’t cure from this malady. It’ll always be lurking, in the form of an essay, a book, the testimonies of other lives on hold, with interludes of happiness, with rays piercing the thickness of fog, or the soothing voice of a song with promises of an easier future, peaks not as steep, ravines transformed into sunny valleys…

Did it get easier? Could he lick his wounds and go further? Can he train his mind to stop wandering into the torturous, sinuous paths he had borrowed in his past?
Can Mark stop hearing the voices of abuse? The cynical, despicable laughs of disdain as physical violence was applied,
The contempt in his father’s voice as he mocked Mark’s screams when it was the only mechanism of defense he had.
Only much later, did he realize, while writing an inventory of his past, that as a mother, Anna had never protected them from ” him ” nor from herself.

As a mother suffers to bear her children into this world, are there not given to her, the instincts to embrace, support and secure their off-springs in time of need?
An aptitude easily found in animals. Why was it not given to his mother? Couldn’t she give him the basic feeling of protection a child needs for it’s natural development?

Once again, his mind wandered aimlessly into forbidden zone. The zone that leads and still does to compulsive over thinking. He tries to train his mind back into friendly territories. To the life he’d built for himself ” after “. The love and sincerity, his wife Liz and children showered upon him. Her constant encouragement. Her belief in him.
When he doubted. When the colors of his pallet were mostly black, Patches of grey, Garnished occasionally with dots of red, yellow, Seldomly white.

Belief washes away the darkest of colors as a storm does. It brings back the fragrance of wet leaves, the strong smell of damp bark. Belief, is walking in a park after such
a storm and experience the ” relief ” of nature. Belief is an artist dusting off his canvas, stepping into his scenery with serenity, breath the cleanliness of the air and bathe in the perfection of his masterpiece.

As Mark finished reading Scott’s essay, he’d realized most of the story spoke about himself. He understood with much clarity, as a veil ripping along the pages, the reasons behind
certain behaviors, reactions, he had not connected before. It had just seemed part of his identity.

He hurt, mourned and commiserated with his past all that week-end after those revelations. He understood that something of utmost importance had unraveled in his life.

Not knowing where it would eventually lead him but, hoping it would be the missing link he’d been searching for a long time. The link to the chain of life and it’s continuity.

Being ordinary is something people never aspire to. To him, the word rang the bells of hope. Uniqueness is what is usually sought. Not to him. He had never wanted to glorify
his sufferings. Mark wanted the flatness of the ground. The winters that crept in year after year. The typical greyness of an icy sky. He wanted to cover himself in layers,
in wait of a short summer. He wanted to wake up at the same time, every morning, cook the same breakfast and give the same good morning kiss to his ten year old son and enjoy
his huge hug squeeze the last breath out of his lungs.

Mark was tired of the unexpected.

He was contented with ” ordinary ” and wanted it to last as long as possible.

He didn’t want to wait for pain to surprise him around the corner. He wanted it to be, the beast he had tamed, put at rest in the attic, never to wander down again.

Yes. Mark was very happy with, flat.

Scott R. Sanders had written his essay for his son, but as a result, helped and is still helping the people around the world, who had lived in confusion until then.
His love, is a snowball, rolling down a slope and growing bigger by the second until it reaches the foot of the mountain and takes place, where children and adults
can playfully, lovingly sculpt it, into the shapes of their desires.

Into the monument of their dreams!