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RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distributed Internationally)
************************
INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step. ************************************************************
(What matters is not what tomorrow brings but what you bring to tomorrow or as one philosopher put it, “Achievement is in the soul of man and not in his circumstances.”) ********************************************************************
Evening
I wonder how many times, when I was a boy, I squeezed between our hedge and the garage, leaped forward into the overgrown field behind, and raced for the forest. In late afternoon, pockets of deep darkness and heavy foliage would swallow up my tiny frame.
Once inside it was quiet and I would walk Indian-soft, animal sounds occasionally broke the stillness and then I could smell it, the stagnant stench of low tide, the mud all shriveled up and ready for sucking at my toes.
Tall swamp grass stretched up to the forest edge. It was labyrinth of criss-cross paths where my friends and I often prowled. It was a place of snakes, the deep-throated slurp of frogs, and sure-footed squirrels bounding from branch to branch against the sky.
It was a place for little boys to act brave and be scared all at the same time.
It’s not that much different now. Our confidence is still so easily dispelled: an extra layer of fat, a barrage of pimples, a bald spot shining in the sun, any one of those will do it. Someone says, “Good morning” and with a paranoia that surprise us we wonder all day about the tone of voice that was used. We pride ourselves on our candor and our ability to absorb candor from others until someone disagrees with us and we are shattered.
There is a little boy hiding behind each of our manly facades and that little boy is so easily hurt.
No, it’s not that different now. Sometimes business smells, too, and moral shriveling sucks at our souls, and the labyrinth of decisions crisscrosses and confuses. In this adult jungle big boys can act brave and be scared all at the same time, too.
Evening
Am I any better for writing all this down? Countless millions just live life without delving into it too deeply. What is there in me that finds some special therapy in putting tags on problems?
Has this all been a prayer, even though I did not begin these musings with a “Dear Lord” nor end them with an “Amen”? What is a prayer, anyway, but a spelling out of what God already sees? When I admit I have more than I can handle, am I halfway in a prayer?
Evening
I have just about decided that it is not how far I go in life that really counts, but in what direction. Is then my dissatisfaction not because I have not achieved all my goals, but rather that in achieving them I have grown dissatisfied with the scenery.
Am I where I planned to be but too well aware that some of the detours have worn me out? “Straight arrow” they once called me in long-ago yesteryears, but now I lie, and cheat and legally steal.
I have greased the paths with rationalization, intent on making the slide toward cynicism easier for my conscience. It’s not just the big lies but also the “exaggerations” that, piled atop each other, make it a mountain.
************************************************************************
TO BE CONTINUED ************************************************************************
To view an abundance of unusual stories by Neil Wyrick go to his other blog ONE A DAY, YOUR SPIRITUAL VITAMINS
Click on the following URL
http://oneadayyourspiritualvitamins.blogspot.com/ ************************************************************************
INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step. ************************************************************
(What matters is not what tomorrow brings but what you bring to tomorrow or as one philosopher put it, “Achievement is in the soul of man and not in his circumstances.”) ********************************************************************
Evening
I wonder how many times, when I was a boy, I squeezed between our hedge and the garage, leaped forward into the overgrown field behind, and raced for the forest. In late afternoon, pockets of deep darkness and heavy foliage would swallow up my tiny frame.
Once inside it was quiet and I would walk Indian-soft, animal sounds occasionally broke the stillness and then I could smell it, the stagnant stench of low tide, the mud all shriveled up and ready for sucking at my toes.
Tall swamp grass stretched up to the forest edge. It was labyrinth of criss-cross paths where my friends and I often prowled. It was a place of snakes, the deep-throated slurp of frogs, and sure-footed squirrels bounding from branch to branch against the sky.
It was a place for little boys to act brave and be scared all at the same time.
It’s not that much different now. Our confidence is still so easily dispelled: an extra layer of fat, a barrage of pimples, a bald spot shining in the sun, any one of those will do it. Someone says, “Good morning” and with a paranoia that surprise us we wonder all day about the tone of voice that was used. We pride ourselves on our candor and our ability to absorb candor from others until someone disagrees with us and we are shattered.
There is a little boy hiding behind each of our manly facades and that little boy is so easily hurt.
No, it’s not that different now. Sometimes business smells, too, and moral shriveling sucks at our souls, and the labyrinth of decisions crisscrosses and confuses. In this adult jungle big boys can act brave and be scared all at the same time, too.
Evening
Am I any better for writing all this down? Countless millions just live life without delving into it too deeply. What is there in me that finds some special therapy in putting tags on problems?
Has this all been a prayer, even though I did not begin these musings with a “Dear Lord” nor end them with an “Amen”? What is a prayer, anyway, but a spelling out of what God already sees? When I admit I have more than I can handle, am I halfway in a prayer?
Evening
I have just about decided that it is not how far I go in life that really counts, but in what direction. Is then my dissatisfaction not because I have not achieved all my goals, but rather that in achieving them I have grown dissatisfied with the scenery.
Am I where I planned to be but too well aware that some of the detours have worn me out? “Straight arrow” they once called me in long-ago yesteryears, but now I lie, and cheat and legally steal.
I have greased the paths with rationalization, intent on making the slide toward cynicism easier for my conscience. It’s not just the big lies but also the “exaggerations” that, piled atop each other, make it a mountain.
************************************************************************
TO BE CONTINUED ************************************************************************
To view an abundance of unusual stories by Neil Wyrick go to his other blog ONE A DAY, YOUR SPIRITUAL VITAMINS
Click on the following URL
http://oneadayyourspiritualvitamins.blogspot.com/ ************************************************************************
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