I was going to write a book one time. I walked around all my life thinking I had a book in me, and over time I convinced myself that not everyone carries that mindset around with them. I’ve never really been able to confirm that, but I am pretty confident, that people don’t stand alone – all people that is – on a sidewalk thinking to themselves that it is their responsibility to write a book.
I remember one time being shot down by a woman I was referred to because she was writing a book. I introduced myself, we talked a lot about writing, and then she said something to me that took me a couple of years to get over. She said, “how could someone possibly write a book if you’re not an expert on the topic? I gave up my dream years ago.” I was bummed and contemplative, reflecting upon my experiences over the years, and I felt like my dream was over. At home I never had any support for my writing, so it was always an uphill battle, because if not supported by the people we are meant to be closest to, there is certainly a discouragement that follows.
It is when we discover that someone out there does care about words that we find inspiration. However, what I have discovered in recent years, is it has to be for me. My writing has to be designed in a manner that lets me be, without worrying about other people’s opinion or for that matter seeking validation. I think it is ok to be disappointed when the person we are suggestively in love with doesn’t show interest in words.
I think that makes me question, really, what is love? In the writings I peruse, the lyrics from the artists I listen, the haunting scream to a quiet weep of a well composed violinist, the saga of the blues, in all the torment around love it reminds me there is a greater good in our lives. We can love, but if we choose to we must allow for the pitfalls and the wondrous peaks of euphoria.
I recently was directed by a dear woman to ‘be.’ It meant a lot and resonated with the life I am enduring today. It allowed me to both grieve and feel happiness that there is a normalcy in my life that is ok, that I can be this person that remains inspired by the life around him. The suggestion has left me rather ecstatic, and realism is slowly making its way into my lexicon of communication.
I have been living alone now since the beginning of the year. At first it was horrific, many nights I spent crying in self-pity, feeling the pain of the loss of companionship. I had forgotten how unhappy I was, when suddenly I was faced with experiencing losing even a formality in my life that had existed for decades. At the same time, I was experiencing loss outside of own societal norm. I was forever trying to make something right on so many different avenues that I really did fail them all. But as I sit here writing my words, in sort of a plea, it is me trying to find that ‘be’ might give me a place in the greater scheme of things.
We live in a horrendous time right now with COVID-19. I was alone for nearly two months when I didn’t want to be at all, and now I’m experiencing ‘shelter in place’ with everyone. I don’t know if I am alone in my thinking that what if I contracted this virus? Would it really strike me down? There are many times when I have felt I am invincible, not by personal choice but by the cards I have been dealt. So that being said, if I do have to survive here, my friendships, the people I am closest to help me understand that loneliness, or the feeling of it, is of my own doing, it is not anyone else’s responsibility.
I am not abandoned because an infectious disease is floating in our atmosphere. I have an ability to live my life. I have the peace of mind to understand that to grieve is healthy, and right now my grief covers so many avenues, a primary one that someday I will speak upon far more openly than can today.
For now, I will continue to try to find suitable ways to be.
© Scott F Savage 4/2020
the ‘b’ series