Just words: hope

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Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well. It is the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.

Václav Havel

When I grew up in East Germany, Václav Havel was known as – what they called at the time – a dissident and as a writer, whose books we were prevented from reading, whose theatre plays I never saw. During the Prague Spring and the invasion of the Warsaw Pact armies, he provided an on-air narrative on the radio and was banned from all theatres after the supression of the Prague Spring in 1968. Later he was the last president of Czechoslovakia and the first president of the Czech Republic.

I have nothing to add to his quote in the context of his story.

I heard this quote today in a lecture by Margaret Wheatley.

Just words: beginning

Hey, Friend,

New beginning. Always a beginner. Be. Beg. Begin. Gin. In. Inn. Inning.

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Begin is a rare word. Often used over times immemorial. It’s ancient and went through a lot. Begin is unlike many others. Belong. There is a long. Become. There is a come. Behold. There is a hold. Begin. There is only gin; and that does not even come close, only at the end. The be- is transparent. The -gin is obscure. Millenia ago, the Germanic peoples had a verb ginnan. To cut open. To open up. It must have started then. They also had – and we still do – a be-prefix. To cause or to make whatever the verb says it does. These two were merged into a rare word. To cause something to open up. To begin. To make it – cut – open. To begin.

Beginning in the second paragraph. Ing … ing … ing. Something is going on here. Progressing. Progressive. And it fossilized. A little. Into a noun. Static? No! Process—ing. Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow. Always doing. Changing. Progressing. Beginning.

At the beginning of 2022, wishing you all new beginnings. Many. Fruitful beginnings. Often. And a happy ending.

Wrote this in a San Diego writers group today. The prompt was – you guessed it – beginning. I am very grateful for and to this group.

My obstacle

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Gosh, I didn’t expect to wake up to this, when I opened my eyes on Christmas Eve. Holy Night. Drenched in sweat. Or tears. My heart is pumping my t-shirt wet. 113 did not let me rest desperately, and I was not awake in my dreams and daymares. I must have been running in my sleep. I need to remember. Should I trace my steps in the dark? I am not sure. I guess I never was. Sure. Darkness within darkness — the gateway to all understanding. That’s what my CD said, when I did the one-minute meditation. Ten years ago. It is darker now. Silent night. I wish! The viral noise of this world has become unbearable. Another nail on the cross. Nine inches. Why do they make them so big? Why do they make crosses and nails and crowns at all? I am anxious. To know. Questions within questions quarrel with each other and crumble my skull. Unholy nights. And the one question has not yet surfaced. All comes in moments of darkness. And then there is a crack. A crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. Oh, thank you, Leonard. You were there when my son was born. And you are here now. How do you do that? You left us years ago. You left me with sadness and silence, when I am walking. The running noise is mine. Mind the noise. I can’t hear the music. Only the heart is silent. What is it writing? If I could read the word … There is on O of surprise of the unforeseen and an E at the end. Or does it start with an old opportunity? The radical center is fuzzy. Is there a B for belonging? My longing that I have had for longer than my being. The S has been bowed like my spine, so that it stays silent each storm. Standing tall, this must be the Cross of Lorraine, pointing up to the Holy Spirit, connecting companions sideways, but wait … The small beam on top connecting me to myself is not here. It is a T that I need to cross one more time. Is there an A for the beginning of the alphabet soup? It might be. It reflects the angst, anxiety, attachment to find the crack, so that the light gets in. What light? How bright! A C starts capere. Meaning to learn, to receive. Ad capere: accept. The d changed to a C for compassion. To suffer with somebody. And myself. In love. That is the L, which I anxiously attached to the A for too long. Love suffered. Loving suffered. I suffered aloof. That is the OBSTACLE. I am relieved to see it staring me in the face. It looks familiar; it must have warned me before. Unheard. Has it never changed shape? For the little boy? For the lad? The fellow? Man? Unseen. It has been standing before me, as obstacles do. I ran blind against this shiny object and bruised myself and hurt. Others. Myself. Unseeing. I shoved the obstacle hard, went back at it unknowing, passed judgement over it, and foreclosed the universal flow. The waters swelled in prior life. Deluge — unheard. The noise — unbearable. The water washed away what we built. On sand. Now I am suffering as Noah before my time and long. Lucky as I am, I did not drown, when I let go of my sinking rig. Now I am using my 150 days or more in the Ark. I submit. I submit to the disorder of words. To nature and nurture myself. Submission. Now I will let my heart write for a year and years and pray that my Ark will land on a mount, when the water subsides and the question is clear.

This the first text for a year of writing. I have just started the course to uncover my self. I am committing to the other 51 lessons …