Once again it has been too long since I wrote a meaningful post for these Ramblings; but life has that way of knocking you off course when you least expect it.
Although we should really anticipate that to happen, because that is what life is; a series of random, arbitrary events one after another.
Some of those events affect us instantaneously, shock us into immediate reaction. Others slowly reveal themselves through a string of smaller incidents which accumulate, gradually pushing us to a point where we are forced to take notice, to take action.
Yet the most disturbing are those which only reveal themselves after the event. The sly, stealthy little beggars that inexorable invade our lives, like fine plant roots microscopically threading their way through solid concrete, destabilising and destroying it progressively yet unnoticed, until it shatters or crumbles.
This is where many of my thoughts have been over the past few weeks.
You see, even though I have been busy publishing, designing, writing and doing all sorts of whatnots, my mind, or some sections of it, have been chewing over and considering the world, life, the universe and the deeper meaning of SpongeBob SquarePants existential existence.
All of which brings me to this:
So, there I was one morning, standing in the bathroom and looking into the mirror. This was not a vanity thing; (I was considering if I could get away another day without shaving!) when I looked at myself directly.
Now, let me explain what I mean about the term ‘directly’.
Generally, when we look in the mirror we are not looking at ourselves, we are looking at and for parts of ourselves. We are looking for stray hairs, grey hairs, wrinkles, blemishes, spots, pimples, dark patches and crow’s feet and so on. It is not often that we take that step back, at least in the mental perspective, to look at ourselves as a whole.
Once more, we are too distracted by our ever expanding waistline, or drooping…(jowls?), the slight hunching of our shoulders or offset bend of our neck. Our eyes are taken from our whole. We fail to see ourselves in our entirety.
But that is what I did that morning. For the first time in an absolute age I saw myself. I knew the reflection was me, I accepted that.
Yet I had difficulty in recognising the fact.
You see life’s events have caught up with me. Those sly, stealthy little beggars, the ones that inexorable invade our lives, like fine plant roots microscopically threading their way through solid concrete, had worked their threadlike tendrils into every conceivable part of my body, with perhaps, the exclusion of my eyes.
Yes, it is natural. It is what life does. It is called aging and it will/is happening to us all.
But that is NOT where I am going with this Rambling.
I am going here…
Looking in that mirror was a point of reference for my personal diary. A mark placed upon my life’s calendar. It was a recognition point.
My life, and I suspect yours, are full of these reference points; the moments when you realise that one stage, one phase of your life is over and another begun.
I can think back and recall many such stages. Most like this one, unrealised until after the change has occurred.
I can do much the same with my writing. In fact, they have often gone hand in hand with a weird synchronicity. But then again that is, on consideration, not so strange.
You see, I am not the type of writer who focuses solely on one genre; I write more from the foundation of heart, of feeling, of whatever may be blowing my frock up just now. Which is probably why I have so many works in progress at any given time.
As an example I have published works ranging from a fictional novel about abduction and love, to books of emotive and disturbing poetry, through to short stories of crime and non-fictional historic chronicles.
I love writing fiction as much as I do non-fiction, such as this Rambling. But I can still trace the changes in tempo, in cadence and style of each period of time, each phase of my life in which they were written.
My writings and words reflect the beat of my heart, the pulse of my soul and my temperament. They have changed and aged over time as has my body.
Which brings me to a question.
How is my mind?
Is that as clear and agile as it once was, or are the threads of invasive destruction even now winding their unseen fibres within?
I know that, at least until the next time I look at myself in the mirror, I shall continue to write, to leave a trail of my existence behind, a legacy of my being.
I am, for now, ready for any event life may wish to throw my way, just as I am in my continued ponderance behind the theory of SpongeBob’s existence.