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I found my mission as a young man full of energy and passion, fuel and heat. But, as happens, when a third element was added, a new combustible such as resistance to change or the fury of fear, my own passion erupted into flame and shooting sparks. Sometimes, my passion drove me to harm others with violent words or actions.
I’m not proud of these events. If I could, I might relive them differently, but I can’t. It’s probably for the best. The life lessons of these events would have been missed.
I would not have known the sheer hell of certainty, of complete, absolute, unshakable conviction of the rightness of a thing or a path or a vision—regardless of its effect on others.
Much inhumanity and cruelty is perpetrated in the name of righteousness.
If we are right on a small fine point, and we use that correctness to justify harm, we have only missed the chance to learn the most important lesson: forgiveness.
We must also learn to forgive ourselves, even if it is painful to admit we were wrong. Painful errors do make the best stories, though, some of those that will live on and on, beyond our last days. I should know.
When you face your last days, you realize that the youthful passion that inspired those tales was also influenced, in part, by fear.
People who claim to know who The Master was have a certainty about his physical beauty. Some are convinced that he was a king, others that he was a judge. His love is often an afterthought and humorless to boot, which is sad.
Laughter, life’s most beautiful gift, seems to make people nervous.
No one ever thought I was beautiful, but then again, maybe I was afraid to reflect the best parts of my soul.
We all write the stories of our lives, praying to find some meaning in the endless scribbling of days, until the days are at an end. Then, we become editors. As we face the end, we realize that seeing a pattern in our lives and turning that into some sort of theme or story may no longer be important. Seeing one more shaft of sunlight through the cracks in the prison wall is.
As my labors were at an end, I realized they were only labors because I made them so. I watched my last sunbeam dance upon the dank flagstones, and then I danced upon the gallows. I’m just a reflection now. All I can hope is that I can help someone else see the light, as I once saw it.
Perhaps the next person will know better what to make of it than I did.
published 29 November 2011
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