The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

The calm winds for sailing life’s seasons are to my back. Making durable progress in a familiar direction amongst all the chaos littering the shore brings comfort. A journey of this sort collects many thoughts, and for nearly two decades my mental cargo has been offloaded during November’s last Thursday. The day of thanks and giving ain’t no ticker tape parade for a clouded traveler exhaling his own worth -- just a few ideas hearkening back to times when people were driven away by cars, not by opinions. Today I believe that writing as if, and speaking as if, and being as if I am the only person in the audience ensures one thing… another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.  

Not sure if this whole thing is real, but I am convinced to imagine it is. The wisdom jar contains more and more unknowns as humanity’s training camp administers to more and more malignant souls. I am most grateful at this moment that there are a lot of great things still remaining. For good or ill I lean further away from trash fires wafting toxins through digital infinity. One man’s dread is another man’s comfort of catching his reflection in the mob. Notwithstanding the mean and worthless social soap box, I have no desire of joining a pep rally in the throes self-help hangers. This year is about a lovestruck me.

When the dirt calls. Wake free of flesh’s prison. Next, eternity. Love shall remain. Eternally.

On this day, in the distant past, a young newlywed woke to thoughts of gratitude for an uncharted voyage ahead of him and his forever bride. While she slept, he penned an open letter of thanks for her. She had unlocked an understanding stored down in an ancient system -- an understanding that once true love has you you are never returning the same person. Before her heart became his, the nights were full of errors. Such power in letting go of foolish pursuits to find questions to answers. Tall and lost -- not yet bolted together tight -- he came to a realization purpose is not defined by what is done, rather who it is done with.  

Doing their best to work through flawed beauty held in coming together as one, they had to shed “me and you.” Fumbling towards a space where fading vertical pronouns no longer come to mind -- abandoning I and me for we and us as the breath of posterity entered their home. The patter of baby steps cured all aches. First words never forgotten. Hugs rung out his beast with the ease of a rag. Yet, a father is velvet and steel. Guilty of caring for each precious gift as if a breeze could crumble them -- while fully conscious of his capacity and willingness to unleash unspeakable hell if harm takes notice of his children. A mere fraction compared to their mother’s readiness. Easy and simple.

Until next year, may your love still give you chills like a good song.

Jarvis