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A Letter to My Strength in Sicily

I wrote this in my diary the first day of June of this year. Originally written in Slovak, I had translated it to English to share with someone close to me. I’ve debated if or when I should share this publicly, recently supposing now is just as good of time as any.

“A Letter to My Strength in Sicily” – June 1st, 2017

It’s an incredible love passed from an old man through me, to a young man he never knew; but he knows him still as he exists in the soul that pulses and breathes in the form of exponential generations that journey through a labyrinth too winding to bend the will.

That young man, once briefly left the side of a woman of whom he rightfully holds as more than sacred (and now all the more since within her, their joining will birth their life with the hope they will be carried beyond their years) because he loves me.

He trusts the result will be worth the torment of exposure to the harsh elements of pages turning with echoes of the voice of a mother he can never again hold; the mother who extinguished his early childhood agony with her touch and with flower petals in his water when he cleansed for every Shacharit she gave him, and painfully birthed his life from her soul so that he may have stillness and peace that could never rot from his bones.

In his bereavement, He ripped at his soul given from this buried mother for the sake of the only parent he has left. He trusts the strength wrought from generational agony would sustain him, empowering his wings affixed with waxed hope. From the core of his being he now tells me that, just for a moment, he chased a light and flew; but now he’s fallen because he feels he flew too close to the sun.icarussea

If only my voice could reach my sweet boy turned fatherly man so I can tell him that his only mistake in this is that he sees me as his likeness so much that he forgets he is himself. Roles have a way of switching themselves around amidst the clouds of confusion.

My strength, my hope, my love that exceeds my capacity of life… You are not this assumed reflection of me you have taken up on my behalf. You are much stronger than that.

This familiarity is no mythical story. I’ll rise from the sea named for me and reach you again someday, if I will be so welcomed upon your shore.

— With love, Icarus

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Posted by on November 20, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Writing Solo, with Help

journalI’ve always had this sense that my writing is uninteresting or horribly composed. I’m not sure which is worse–except maybe both. So when I write, it’s more of my own journaling, internal monologues, poetry, observations, and quickly articulated musings after the moment. I also write letters to those who have passed away and pen pals living in crowded isolation. Often, I write letters I’ll never send as a form of emotional release, regardless of the type or magnitude of my feelings; experiences I’m unable to verbalise just flow into tangibility.

When I do share them with people, that too has been a consistently good experience. Those who harbour negativity will continue to do so, but sometimes they’re inflamed for some reason that I’ll never know. People who don’t know me have been kind in their commentary. Those who love and care about me give me advice or ask questions, wondering what the ‘real’ inspiration was and why. They always know there’s something more below the surface.

So, why the hesitation? There’s no lack of material. No lack of positive potential. But, when it comes to blogging or any other material for an undefined audience, I stop short of the publication line. That is, until someone else gives me a good shove, and *presto* it is done. Someone close with me would edit and format my work, which also ensured that that particular head dump would be turned into a properly published swan. Not only did she write more eloquently than I ever could, she usually knew what I was attempting to convey without needing to ask me anything.

When she passed away, I didn’t know what, if anything, I’d be doing with this blog; especially since I don’t post that often. I’ve heard a lot of blah blah about ‘she would have wanted you to continue’, ‘but you do so well anyway’, and similar yada yada, which I feel is unnecessary and inappropriate.

Bereavement is such a layered complexity. There are many concepts to consider. What part of the journey still remains? Which trails were lost in the emotional storm, and which course will take me in the right direction? These, and other questions arise with such intense concurrency that it’s impossible to differentiate between each train of thought. Ironically, the most necessary component required to even have a chance of making sense of death is time.

So, now I’m back to clearing up a point of hesitation. Making a leap is not something unknown to me. Leaps have all had their many forms. Before I was old enough to learn how to hold a pen, I moved from everything I knew into the house of two strangers I knew nothing about. Very peculiar to call this concept “adoption” since there was no real acceptance. Other leaps have been in quieter acts such as a held hand during another’s last breath, acclimating to new languages, unexpectedly packed duffel bags, a kick off of a high dive… Which leads me to believe that I can do this, too.

PS: So much love and thanks to Star Brady for helping me through this entry as well as many others who are always rooting for me. Your love and kindness is appreciated more than I could ever articulate. Thank you.

 
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Posted by on November 3, 2016 in Purpose, Uncategorized

 

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Trying This Again

It’s been a while since I have posted anything. After thinking about it for some time, I have decided to just make my previous posts private and continue from here.

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If anyone has a question or would like to have me rant/blog about something, let me know and I’ll follow up.

 
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Posted by on January 25, 2013 in Uncategorized