It’s one thing to forgive another’s transgressions –
It’s another to FORGiVE oneself
for bad life choices,
preoccupation with past mistakes,
those self doubts,
or regrets.
It has taken me years to forgive myself for not acting soon enough,
to lead the exodus of the innocents,
to expose a dark burden,
to shed an uncomfortable skin.
When we travel the rough roads of this earthly existence, I think we experience and appreciate more moments of being alive. I believe that it’s during the financial and emotional hardships that a spark of creativity ignites to nurture hope and an innate desire to connect with other souls.
At times I wish my Mother had a happier life with less poverty and mental health strain. Would I be willing to forfeit my own existence if she and her humble carpenter husband had the courage to defy church rules? I remember her stories about attending mass with a batch of clean but raggedly dressed offspring and observing other couples with their one or two well-attired children in their pews.
During sentimental moments, I wish I could travel back in time to help her.
Of course, we know time travel doesn’t exist else some crazy genius would have done this by now to prevent world wars, horrific abuses on humanity, environmental disasters and the ongoing conflict in the Middle East. What a fucked-up world. Thousands of years of evolution, diplomatic exchanges, technological improvements and we still have this mess to hand over to our children. No wonder we have disillusioned youth.
I digress.
When reading about or discussing time travel, my pretty blonde head spins and nearly implodes.
Back to the Future was one of my favourite movies with Michael J. Fox. The Huey Lewis and the News soundtrack rocked my world during my own time of young love. I got confused in attempts to follow the sequels.
I am intrigued by the statements of the creepy yet insightful Über-Morlock in the 2002 movie version of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine:“And what is time travel, but your pathetic attempt to try to control the world around you? Your futile effort to have a question answered? You think I don’t know you, Alexander? I can look inside your memories, your nightmares, your dreams. You’re a man haunted by those two most terrible words: What if?“
At dinner with writing friends recently, I described plans for a summer vacation trip to my Mother’s home town and my ideas for a creative non-fiction story. Some of the questions and thoughts are outlined in blog posts and Tweets from May and June.
I don’t know how far the story will go. I don’t know if I’ll end up doing some speculative fiction, time travel version to convince the single, younger version of my Mother to reconsider her decision and continue her life as an artist – or perhaps a nun. If so, would that spin off an alternate reality or that my siblings and I would not exist?
If I didn’t exist then how could I finish writing that story?
Thanks for dropping by. Post a comment about writing or time travel reading suggestions if you wish. Any that are off-topic will sent into oblivion.
As a real life survivor, parent, attentive friend and writing group member, I agree with the statement that everyone has a story.
I have met people who have a story or two – or more – to share. Some offer real life accounts and cautionary tales.
Some offer works of fiction whose characters have sprung from their imaginations and forced the writers to give them life upon the page.
Some writing friends have far-out story ideas that extend beyond the galaxy. Other friends have shared down-to-earth stories or similar real-life struggles as I. Some have written about them either as self-help books, blogs or as works of fiction containing different places and names. More cautionary tales.
Many people have interesting lives during which they have survived setbacks not within their control or conquered addictions and personal demons.
I admire those with the courage to put pen to paper, to open their journals and hearts to a trusted few. At least twice a year they bravely and willingly deliver a six-minute reading in front of their peers.
My local writing group is Ottawa Independent Writers. That’s in Canada, eh? One does not have to be a published author or literary snob to join. One merely needs to have an interest in writing and would like to connect with others in our community.
You are invited to post a comment here, to add a description and link to your writing group’s web site. Please note that comments will be moderated. Any that are off-topic will be sent into oblivion.
Deep Blonde Thoughts 