Easy AdSense by Unreal

Conservator Google Feed

Add to Google Reader or Homepage

Meta

RSS feedburner feed

Archives

Remembering Manfredo

I came into my twenty-first year like a mind-bleached android, the tool shed of my mind looted of all the tools I had acquired to enter into life. With the sort of bravery that comes with absolutely not caring about anything but bare-bones survival I met people, people who seemed to care, for lack of a better phrase, for my survival. People do that in our lives if we are fortunate. If we are very fortunate we meet the sort of people who not only possess the sort of tools that we need, but they seem to know that we need them, and they seem to have a way of being able to help us restock that trove* of implements so necessary for life.

There are people who have a strange and gifted quality of being able to perceive, no… to know and even interact with the people we are… tomorrow, in some far distant future, and they do it with an ease and camaraderie that places us into a unique and inalterable place and time. People are time travel devices. We enter into the room of their hearts, if they are good people, and we are transported to a dynamic peace, a festival of future and food, building and planning, sipping and resolving. If they are bad, we are sometimes transported by the mind of a confused desire into a warped landscape which we ultimately, by God’s grace, escape from, and we are, invariably, aided in our escape, by those who possess the heart, the soul, and the tools.

I now open the doors of my tool shed and see arcane tools, strange implements that I myself have fashioned out of need and memory. They serve unique purposes in all of the tiny aspects of hacking out my survival in an overgrown and dangerous place. Some of the tools are new, most are old. Some I did not create, but they were handed to me. Some I had to wrestle from the hands of an auspicious traveler, a visitor into the solitary camp, a jovial, challenging or austere migratory creature.

Life is that way, when it is good. I taste the ethnic food, the laughter and regard: there is an old saying,, “Deep calleth unto deep, at the noise of they waterspouts…” If you find this in your life, or it finds you, its meaning will become immediately self-revelatory. Don’t esteem it lightly, if you are blessed with such a friendship.
People age, and then die. This is the only gold we will ever possess.

Copyright February 20th, 2011 by John P. Schumake

* rebuild that cache


2 Comments

 




XHTML: You can use these tags: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>