Some Things

Some things are hard to write about. After something

happens to you, you go to write it down, and either

you over dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the 

wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate

you never quite write it the way you want to.

~ Sylvia Plath

Come sit beside me and luxuriate in the silence and somber peace of the day, with a renewed appreciation for the overcast Golem sky brewing outside my window. The day suits my melancholy soul. It must seem strange, this need for the absence of sound. To my deaf ears busy movement, is like loud torrential waves crashing against me in vibrato burst. Silence is the calm in the storm from bounding four legged pups and an endless list of things unaccomplished. Moments like these erase the overwhelming sense of lost days and unfinished words.

Unfinished words?  Words, which lose strength and substance in any attempt to pen a single legible thought. They don’t even need to pertain to writing; the descriptive nuances of a day’s bygones seem to disappear like a spirit’s whispered warning in the wind. I wonder sometimes, if my muse abandoned me, fleeing behind this heavy-laden emotional year. Don’t worry your little head, that thought only lasted for a fleeting moment before I banished it to absurdity. Life is the teacher which tempers my days with lessons and experience. This year weighed me down with lessons I can’t even begin to comprehend or know what exactly I’m supposed to take away in experience. Death is a strange elixir that way…

Would you believe it’s possible to be given a gift in death? Neither would I until this year. The death of my muse is teaching me how to be deaf, seven long years after I first lost my hearing. I couldn’t face my predicament in the beginning without *Pickles guidance (my working dog for the deaf). My reliance on her never fully taught me to be alone, truly alone in the silence. Yet, six months later, she’s still teaching me, her presence close to my heart conquers the fear and tempers the anger. The anger which I hid so indelicately, the anger simmering always below the surface, demanding - why me.

Why not me? Who else could learn to hear with their eyes and see beauty and truth where so many can't?  I still refuse to believe everything happens for a reason. Human beings have always been resilient; we learn to live with whatever hand life dealt us. Some of us, like me, may take a few years to figure out how to play the game, but eventually we learn. We don’t have any other choice. So bravery, strength, and fear doesn't define us, only our humanity does. I’m still learning. I may lose myself in brooding defiance on occasion, but even then I'm still learning from my stubborn abstinence. And sometimes you have to take a break from life to finish your homework. 

*You can find a picture of Pickles on my sidebar.

Indigo