Surviving

Feeling the warmth of the sun on a cloudy day. A glimpse into a blind billy goat's unique, ever changing perspectives.

2016 12 17 Holiday Essay: A While Ago December 17, 2016

I wrote a poem a while ago. This poem really jumped out and grabbed me by surprise, for it was the first of this kind of writing I had ever attempted. It was a Christmas poem, and now I find myself, all these years later, thinking about it and feeling a little sad that I can’t read it word for word today. As a lot of you know, Christmas poems are some of my favorite poems that I have ever written. There’s just something about them that have a way of enticing the child inside to gather up my things and bring the past ahead to greet my day, today. I suppose that I’m not unlike a lot of other writers who experience these same feelings over the holidays.

The poem was about three wise men that were making their journey towards a star in the sky. They made their way, not knowing why they did, not knowing what was in store for them, and not worrying about anything other than reaching the end of their journey, for it was a special journey indeed. The issues of their day didn’t matter. The barriers, obstacles, opposing points of view didn’t matter to them in the least. All that mattered, all that made sense, all that drove them forward was the thing that none of them could put a finger on, other than knowing that it was the most important ingredient of their day, of any day.

As I wrote this poem, I became part of the story. I walked beside these amazing men on an amazing journey to an amazing place where pure amazement was to take place. I found myself not caring about any of the things in my life that mattered, except the importance of the piece. I didn’t have to think what to write. I didn’t have to think of where the story was going. I didn’t have to think of how the story came to be, or how the story came to me. All I had to do, was write an incredible story that was taking place right before my very eyes.

A short while after writing the poem, it vanished into thin digital air.

I have suffered through my share of moments where I have lost a piece that I have written. Usually it was due to user error, so I never had to worry about blaming anyone but me. Yes, I would cringe, scowl, sulk, raise my voice in anger and tell myself that I will never ever have something so unfortunate happen again, but it has, and it will continue to, for you see, to make mistakes is a human characteristic that brings to light the reason for the gift awaiting those same three wise men.

I love writing no more than when a writing piece takes on a life of its own. I love writing no more than when each time I read a piece, it’s as if someone else wrote it. I love writing no more than when the words explode onto the screen. I love writing no more than when I realize just how much I love to write.

Christmas for me is a time to write. It’s a time to rejoice those feelings I have carried with me from my childhood. It’s a time to reflect on and realize the importance of so many simple things. It’s a time for us all to take a step back and notice all of the things that we should feel grateful for.

I remember a poem from a few years ago that helped me take notice of a special journey that three men made so many years ago. There was a star born in the sky one night that pulled them towards a magical moment born unto a manger. How did they know? How could they know? How wise were they? How much knowledge did they gain from their journey? Do the books really give a fitting description of just how amazing this all was? Was I able to capture the essence of the moment in the words I wrote? Has anyone ever found a way to sufficiently depict the magnificence with their scripted words?

I would give so much to be able to have that poem to read today, but I suppose that I should look at it as an opportunity, an experience that was meant for me.

I lost a poem I wrote a while ago. It remains a special poem to me. I am so very happy and fortunate that through the eyes of the miracle, this poem has found a way to find me once again.

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