May

So weary of late. So much to be done. I have probably moved a ton of weight in the last week or so, perhaps two or three. I really have no idea. We’ve shifted things to storage, sold things, etc., all in preparation for moving. One way or another, we can’t stay here. We have to control the burn. With any luck, we’ll find a renter.

And if we’re really lucky, work. I’ve travelled thousands of miles, plane trip after plane trip, each full of hope. Sometimes those hopes were dashed, and I console myself with the truth: bad fit. I can’t help but find the entire process distasteful. Such an indiginity, pimping oneself. It feels like dating, some women honest, some just looking for presents and compliments, still others terribly confused about what they want and who they are. And I have never been a good liar. For good or ill, I simply let things fall where they may. At times, I wonder if I might be better off if I were less honest, more manipulative, but it’s not so. One must be who he is. There is no gain in winning a job where one must pretend, any more than in winning a woman in similar circumstances.

There is no joy in such things, merely hollow victory. And yet, the time aproaches when such things are of less concern then simple survival. God willing, it will sort out soon.

God willing.

It is good, at least, to know I am not alone. I continue to be amazed at the kindness of my new family. I suppose I shouldn’t be, but old wounds leave scars. I am so aware of how quickly one’s ‘family’ can be stripped from him, of how the truth can strike one in the head like a brick: they were never really YOUR family to begin with. I have made beter choices this time. I am more careful with my trust, and the results are good. This family, I know, is real.

Fast forward a month, to June, and now July.

More work, moving toward a new way of life. The trade I chose seems to have abandoned me. I will move forward with things more reliable. I will be a farmer for a while, as long as I am able, work the land my grandfather left me, and try to raise not only the crops, but the spirit he imbued it with.

Now, it is my own blood family, the ones I had left far behind long ago, who offer hands to me and my family in our time of need. Cousins, aunts, and uncles welcome us with open arms and sage advice. They give us shelter and tell us to pay them as we can. They trust my word to make good on my debts to them, when banks spit in my face for even trivial amounts. They save me from my ignorance, and drop everything to help me. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

Ah, my bones are weary. So much work of late, so much sweat. It’s not the sort of work I’ve done most of my life, but it is, for once, work for me, not for others. And I have done it before. I dispised it, then. Now, I see the value of it, both in real world terms, and spiritual.

The field is almost ready, and seedlings are bursting from the cups where we planted them. It’s late in the year, and we have so little time. Fortunely, we should begin planting them in a day, perhaps two, depending on how our strength holds up. It would have been better to have more time, to have done things earlier, but this is life, not theory. You play the cards you’re dealt.

I wish I could write something more profound, more poignant. God knows, I am rife with thought and emotion, but the words are thin and reedy, too fragile to hold such things at the moment. Sorrow, hope, fear, anticipation, more strange wine. And do there need to be any words, really? Is it so different from yesterday? Will it be any different tomorrow?

I hold my son in my arms and look into his eyes. He is now four months old. His eyes are full of fear, confusion, and joyous wonder at all he sees. He understands nothing. It is all new, frightening, overwhelming. When did I begin to see this as a bad thing? Oh, what a foolish notion that was!

I realize, these long days gone by, that this is simply life. That roaring in one’s head is the hum of constant motion, the wind roaring in one’s ears. You do what you can, and you leave the rest in God’s hands.

Amrath would smile and nod at such notions. “Yes! You begin to see the truth of things! The engines of creation are fueled by chaos and dischord!”

Here I sit, now, on the porch, the humid, Georgia heat still potent even after midnight. My grandfather sat here, once, and watched over us as we played. This was his home, his land, and while he lived, it blossomed, as did we all. I look out over the yard where I played as a child, and think back to a time before I embraced the notion of order over chaos. There was magic, then. There will be magic again.

My grandfather spoke reverently of this land, and what it meant to him. Shortly before he passed on, I promised him I would preserve it. I will do my best to make good on that promise. I will sweat and toil as much as I am able.

I hope he is pleased that the flame he lit still burns.