A self portrait…
A self portrait
The landscape of a righteous life. Can be gentle brushstrokes of restless memories and pretty faces. Old age create clarity and the once fire and brimstone man became the sleeping river. Moving, living and accepting less. Maybe just enough?
Once a young man wanted the loud songs, new cities and the red-hair girls. His young eyes wanted the Hemingway journey and he learn to love the Salinger’s silence. The ache of the war greed stealing his friends and the understanding. Love is inferno dance and we are just. Wildflowers, here for a time and we shall be gone.
The old man sat by Lake Huron and he whispered. I walked in the clouds in the Honduras mountains, I suicide boarded the Winter storms of California and I help bury 10,000 men. What did I learn? Was I part of life or just a observer?
I have become the quiet man. I seek isolation and seclusion. Once deep longing for new adventures is my books, my writing and reading. The journey of life is fair.
“Man is the paragon of life. Man is the masterpiece of creation. He can think, and discriminate between right and wrong, good and evil. He can survey the past, look into the future and become the master of his fate and destiny. He can understand the nature of the eternal and can become the Eternal.”
I told my children. Life wait for no-one. Know what you want and seek it out. Seek what you love, even if the journey, the effort could kill you. The sweetness of love is rare. When the love is alive, make the days and nights last forever. You will trip and fall often in a life. We must rise-up and be fearless.
We need easy days, laughter and to know we have done our best. Never accept less, find someone who love you for who you are. Find someone who love you in the good and the bad days. Find someone that make your heart dance and who can make you smile on the Winter days of living.
Today is a cold Winter night in Michigan and I am create a self-portrait. I pray I am by the sea, a lovely red-hair girl holding my hands and I am singing love and praise to her. I wonder what did Hemingway learn? What did he remember before he left our world? I am Hemingway age when he held his shotgun. Did he remember love? Did he remember war?
Once I held a 30-30 in my hands and I was saved by love. Most of us had danced on a dangerous edge. If someone asked me. What is life?
I would tell them,
love is more than us.
Life is what we leave behind.
Did we leave the memory of love, of kindness,
an laughing and joyful man?
To know love, we must save someone.
To know peace, we must save many.
“Choose what you love most. (Let’s it kill you)”