Tribute // November 13, 2005

I have always considered myself an emotionally stable individual. I take life as it comes and don’t much get lost in the details. To be honest, I’ve never been that impressed by this thing we call life. It lets us down. It hurts. Its full of pain. It seems that every time you think you’ve found something that will fulfill or at least bring some measure of happiness, life rears its ugly monstrous head and breaths its fire down upon you. We are left amazed at its fury. We are stunned by is veracity. Our bitterness knows no bounds and we wander off to find the next piece of the puzzle that might open the heart and repair. But it cannot. We take more of the pain with us everywhere we walk. Every path we travel down simply piles more baggage upon us that we cannot hold – Till, in the end, we look to something, someone… and cry for release.

I always found the release – in my mind. No matter how much my expectations had been let down; no matter how greatly I hurt – in my mind, I was the king. I was the hero. I was the Prince Charming. I was the general that lead the charge across an open field vanquishing my enemies in bloody victory. I was the valiant sire that swept in from the storm to rescue the maiden from the mouths of the hungry, vile men that would destroy their virtue. I lived this life in my mind. I loved this life in my mind. In my mind, I never made the wrong move. I never said the wrong thing. The blessed souls that met me on my path knew they were thus for when I opened my mouth – out came the words that solved all their problems. Out came the words that made them loved. I made dreams come true, fantasy became reality, truth born on the wings of fiction became my standard. I lived in a world that did not hurt, it did not need healing for it was never broken.

The fanatical ravings of a child? Not so, I find that my crutch still exists. More so, it breaths live and well within me. For any moment, I can leave this ugly place with its dust, and sickness, death and mayhem. I can leave this place and find my own, peacefully, I walk along a street in Atlanta, headed to my favorite spot just to sit and chat with a friend. I ride a motorcycle into the Andes Mountains looking for the tribe of Indians that I am about to reveal something they have never seen or heard. I take a weapon in hand and find those that killed my soldiers and make them pay for what they’ve done. I stand…beside my mother and make her live. Its all there. It remains to this day my favorite crutch.

When I was in school – the years that I remember most, we lived on a farm. My fondest, and most painful moments were lived there. We had in this place a beautiful barn, made in the early part of the century of wood hewn from the very property it stood on. Inside the magnificent structure, it was bound together with wooden stakes and long rough iron nails. It was my home. It was my escape. My own paradise. In the basement of this place, there were windows that overlooked the rolling pasture that encompassed our property. On any given day, it was at once a warship, a stone fortress keeping the enemies at bay, it was the prison that I penetrated in order to save those poor innocents that lay trapped in its belly. It was everything and it was nothing. An empty shell. I set up a church once. I preached to thousands. They flocked to hear my messages. I hid in the silo more than once and cried.

My mother was a dreamer. Nothing was too big for her. Nothing was quite impossible. Nothing was unimaginable – if you tried hard enough, had enough audacity – you might just pull it off. And trying and failing was far more important than not trying at all. I see her now as I saw her last. I was leaving to go back to school – I was contracted to sing for the college I attended. Even though I wanted to stay home, (she had just had brain surgery to remove a tumor) she insisted that I do what I had signed to do. I remember her lying on her tall poster bed, the spring air blowing gently into the room, the cotton lace curtains drifting into themselves. I was sitting on the bed and she insisted. I don’t remember what she said. I have tortured my mind since then to come up the words but nothing has ever come. I left the room and packed my bags. I remember hot tears stinging my cheeks as I left that room to head off to Florida. I sat in a van later that week headed west, my group looking pained. They were such compatriots; they cared so much, but didn’t really know what to say. I suppose I would not have cared if they did. I just remember sitting there and going once again to that place where I was a learned doctor that came up with the cure. I always wanted to fix it. I have always hated, more than anything, the pain people have. I have found such intense pleasure in helping people in the midst of pain. I guess its why I ended up where I did – I help people for a living. The bitter catch is sometimes, there is nothing I can do and I am left holding the hand of a hurting soul that give anything to be released of the pain inside – and there is nothing I can do but hold their hand. It hurts you know. It really does. To see people in such agony and know that there is no way that you can take it from them. All you can do is walk with them, hold their hand as they test the dizzying waters.

I think of that moment as the last I saw of my mother for the next time I would see her, it was just her body, just her beautiful, death-defiant shell denying to the last. When she passed, it was on her terms. I watched her go. I held her hand and felt it get cold. I stood over her grave and promised her that I would make her proud. I promised her that I would live to the expectations that she set for me. Even now, I struggle to even put such thought to paper. Sometimes, in the dark stillness, I find a quiet place and I think about her. I go to that place where I sit with her and tell her all the stuff I’ve got to do. I tell her about the students I’ve taught, I tell her about the people I’ve met. I get to tell her all about the places that I’ve been and the things I have learned. Just me and her. And she tells me that she is proud of me. She tells me that I’ve done right. Then the night returns and I walk back to my tent, I look at my desk, shuffle some papers, plan the next day and turn in for the night. The moment is past and reality returns.

My mom was born November 3rd. I miss you mom. I love you. See you when I get done down here. Gotta see some more soldiers.

I know that others have walked this path. It is long and painful. Know this, as long as the Missed Ones live within you, they are always there. Always. There is no weapon made that can take them from your hearts. There is no road so lonely that you will not find them there, in your memories. Go to them. Tell them your heart. Then stand, for the day approaches.

Blessings and peace to you all.