gathering embers

Remember. That rising heat in your soul is rage. It is rage for doing excessively but still not having done enough. It is rage for emptying yourself out and making room for the arbitrary whim of of the people around you and the circumstances that govern them. It is rage for fulfilling it all, but not fulfilling yourself. It is rage at one's self for being selfless.

Remember. That twisting sensation that pervades your stomach is guilt. This is guilt for letting events, people and the world have their varied, obtuse, selfish ways and taking it all in stride. This is guilt for thinking that harmony begets success--no, that's supposed to be peace. This is guilt for hoping for peace when peace is meant for the dead or dying. It is guilt for bridging gaps when you should be making an impact.

Remember. That pervasive flush that crawls through your skin is discontent. This is discontent for lowering your standards for sanity's sake and instead finding yourself at the bottom. This is discontent for the irredeemable nights of toil, lost hours of heroism, and wasted instances of initiative that have all led to a place as extreme as it is undesirable. This is discontent for being content a little too soon.

Remember all these sensations. Feel the unsettling urgency to remedy this affliction, this blight upon your life. Let the sharp edges of these memories roil within you, and gash and cut against each other hotly until, like bright flintstone, crackles and sparks. Let all these thoughts and emotions come together. Then set it on fire.

And when you grow giddy with heat, and feel vibrant with flame, pour this energy out and into the world. That is passion. And passion, much like fire, does not choose its impetus nor kindling. It simply remembers itself, and burns.

staying warm

I was walking outside, on a sunny Sunday, the first of the year and at the cusp of the coming week of usual work. Like everyone else, I was all tucked and fleeced in winter layers, trying my best not to expose any bare part of me to the sharp chill air. I walked slower than usual. I was distracted. I was consciously keeping my feelings in check, feelings about the return to the rat-race tomorrow. For every outburst of worry that shot out from the dark pit of my soul: I reached for it, caught it, and carefully wrapped it in a warm bundle of optimism for the new year.

I passed some stoic parents, orbited by little packages of scarves, wool and legs. They had a far-away look in their eyes. It reminds me of that scene from western movies, you know, where the leading man, riding his trusty steed, trods away from the town he calls home. And against the backdrop of the setting sun, he turns for a last glance back. There was no worry in those eyes, and it wasn't sadness either that tinged that scene.

I think, it was the beginning of resolve that dawned upon people crossing over a threshold in their lives--one of many, probably. You see, the young are lucky since they haven't gone through enough of life yet to know how important it all is; the old are equally lucky since they've already gone through enough of life to know how pointless it all is. For the unlucky few caught in the middle, we venture forward and against the harsh, ever-present, winds of change. In our journey, we shed our innocence, our naivete, our youth, and fashion for ourselves a sturdy mantle woven from the advice of friends, the follies of yesterdays, and the keen wisdom born from a kind heart.

On this new year, instead of preparing resolutions that dwell on goals about work, love, or health, I would instead like to make a resolution regarding my temperament: that whatever this new year may bring, wherever it will take me, may I face it all with grace and sensibility. Let this single thought blanket the rest of the year.

And in that manner, we shambled, the crowd and I, in comfortable shrouds of our own making.

Photo credit: Wool Scarves by beth mercer