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Four years ago, I had the greatest spiritual experience of my life, and it would change me forever. In front of the Continental Airline terminal, a man named Dennis appeared to me for the first time. Until he tapped me on the shoulder, I did not know he was the one I had spoken to several times over the course of a year and a half, when I was in pain, feeling hopeless and worthless; he was the one who told me what it was like when he was drinking, and what it felt now to be sober and connected to God. He was the first in whose presence I didn't feel judged-- who shared his experience, strength, and hope with equanimity-- who spoke my language. You see, he planned my trip to Atlanta in order for me to get the help he knew I needed. So when he appeared in person, it was as if we knew each other forever-- even before those long talks on the phone. It seemed he wanted to be there; he wanted to share my pain, sending me off with a huge smile, a card with the Serenity Prayer, and a hug that was the most honest and unconditional I've ever experienced-- perhaps the first I never recoiled from. He was an incarnation of something I had never felt before, but had always sought. I knew, that day, that he had something I wanted, and off I went.
Well, I don't see Dennis much now-- maybe once a year. It doesn't matter; I've learned what it means to live with one in spirit-- the kind of living that is not bound by time and space. I've learned to appreciate "the small things" which aren't so small after all: like being able to embrace someone and really mean it; like believing not everyone I meet wants something back; like having friends who believe you can't keep IT unless you give it away; like being able to sit at a James Joyce Society meeting, reading the most unreadable novel ever written, without feeling like a pseudo-intellectual geek my father would have slapped around; like being able to stand up and say "I'm an alcoholic" and really believe people are listening, as if that has meaning for them-- that what I've said may truly change their lives.
Most importantly, I've learned I don't need to be afraid to express myself-- another one of those "small things:" to write poems and not be afraid of seeming silly, narcissistic, or weird. Here at P-n-P, I've leared that someone will read my work--stuff I wouldn't dare show my mother or father, siblings or most friends-- and comment honestly on them; that you've heard what I have to say, and have deemed it important-- the way one would treat a child, with respect for his budding autonomy and self-actualization. I've learned that no matter how poorly written, what I write seems to resonate with someone, somewhere, and that it is enough; that it is, in fact, everything.
So I may never meet Robert Betts, Anthony Stahlhut, Debra Rose, or David Pekrul. I may never sit down with Walter Jones, Roger Crique, Brian Dickenson, or Jean George. I may never meet so many others at P-n-P with whom I've shared my most intimate feelings. Again, it doesn't matter. Like my friend Dennis, I feel I've known you-- if not forever, at least way before I picked up my pen, and more than you can imagine. You are part of something so real to me, that giving it a name or a concrete entity is superfluous and unnecessary. It's always been there. More importantly, my expression of it means everything. Thank you and have a great year.
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