2009 November 6

2009 November 6

Friday. November. Fall. Simple words with such complex meanings and feelings behind, over and beyond them.

Now I walk in beauty:
Beauty is before me,
Beauty is behind me,
Above and below me.

In the US, many celebrate the fourth Thursday of November as “Thanksgiving Day.” The myth of the first Thanksgiving on the east coast of North America is pretty, but denies so much as to make me uncomfortable to celebrate without honoring those first people upon whom the various governments of North America have systematically, intentionally and without apparent remorse practiced genocide. For what or to whom can those soles be thankful?

This is the season in which I personally take stock of my life. Always, even in the depths of dark depression, I have much for which to be thankful: I am whole and generally healthy, with a beautiful son and many generous and true friends. I am employed and paid well for a good day’s work. Whether it is the cooler weather, the freshening and clarifying winds of Southern California falls, or simply the longer and colder nights that make pondering easier, this is the time that urges, nay, forces me to reflect on my life and where I am headed.

For without noticing in what direction I am going, like the un-aimed arrow, I will miss my target.

This moment’s target is to write reflectively. The world sees much turmoil—soldiers killing their siblings-in-arms, soldiers killing other soldiers and civilians around them, drug use weakening our youth and artists’ minds, the cradle of civilization continuing in unbroken, uncivilized strife through the millennia.

But a baby is born, young lovers are reunited and a flower grows triumphantly yellow petals to the warm sun from a crack in the sidewalk. A dog suckles a kitten and a curmudgeon underwrites a crack-baby’s education. Life, ever-abundant life pervades and perseveres. And what is to be my part of this parade?