I do not know exactly when this was written, but it was somewhere between 1995-1997, I believe. I was living on the road out of a camper, and having a very enjoyable time. This was a letter written to family members.

The joy of living comes from just that…living. To be alive is to be like the flame in a fire, to dance wildly, passionately, burning with desire, and giving off warmth to those you meet. It is the urge to dance in public and the courage to do it. It is the sounds of laughter, joy, music, sorrow, and pain, all arising from the soul who dares to feel it all, no matter the consequences.

It is the pleasure of the physical, the feeling of green grass between your toes, the pouring rain on your face, the depths of sex, cool breezes in Spring, and knowing your body is a beautiful instrument of the soul, desiring to be nourished and feel the sensations it craves. It is the smells of fine foods, the ocean’s salty breeze, manure, decay, incense burning, flowers in Spring, and the scent of sweaty bodies hard at work or play.

It is the sounds of ancient bagpipes rolling across one’s memories, the cry of a hawk hunting it’s prey, the tinkling of bells, the voice of a loved one, the screech of tires, or the sound of one’s heart beating a rhythm as ancient as time.

It is the colors of life blending in harmony to create the images we see, the sun’s reflection off the golden wheat of the field, the old woman bent and aged, the smile of a young child, the dishes stacked high, the glint of glass when pierced by light, and the image of ourselves we behold in our reflection.

I love to feel the pain of muscles as they stretch and the beads of sweat that drip from my pores when I am hard at work. The satisfaction of knowing I am strong, that my body feels, that I am accomplishing something, something that without my body I could not otherwise experience. I love the way my voice sounds when it vibrates in a song, the variations of tone, the careful conservation of breath, the imperfections, and the desired note hit just right.

I love the feel of a kindly touch, a deep massage, or hair brushed from my eyes. I love the feel of freedom, the wings that help me fly, and I love the feel of chains that bind me to this earth, and the people that I love. I love the feeling of pleasure as it releases my frustrations, and makes me feel warm inside, and I love the feeling of pain because it lets me know I’m alive, that I feel, and I am deepened by its lessons. The feeling of tears running down my face is like the rivers of my joys and pains, they wash my soul and wash it sparkling, like dew on morning grass.

I love the way the words flow from my soul through my pen, like magic symbols embodying more meaning than can be seen, and only felt, by a soul who truly feels. I love the company of those who are real, who shine like diamonds reflecting the myriad aspects of their depth. I love looking into the eyes of souls who are endless, and are not afraid to live…or die.

I love a lively conversation that is creatively intelligent. I love the feeling of my ax striking wood that splinters into fragments of a whole. I love the puzzle of my life and piecing it together. I love taking the stairs one step at a time, and mastering each before I go onto the next.

I love teaching others when what I have said strikes a chord in the souls of my listeners. I love to paint and sculpt like unto the life I create. I love to wear costumes and walk onto the stage of life, improvising my lines with every different act.

I love to hold the secret near that the play I am a part of is not as serious as I confess it to be, for all are so solemn in who they profess to be. I love to be the dreamer, and not the dreamed, for my life I live is wholly me, not someone else’s vision of what is to be. To borrow a phrase of someone I’ve read, my life is a “homemade” life, and a homemade life seems the best kind of life to me. It is a genuine life, a life sewn, painted, dreamed of, enacted, all by me. It’s a life I can be proud of because like a painting I created, I can say “hey, I made the image you see.

Oh sure, it’s not perfect, but the beauty I find in the imperfections are the striving to be a better me, and knowing with time I’ll master my life, like an artist masters his art. Cervantes said “The road is better than the inn”. It is nice to rest along life’s journey, but I must continue to live, to master my art, for it is the process of attaining which is truly the joy, and the outcome a pleasure leading to yet another road.

How can I say what inspires my soul when it so eludes the tongue to speak a language once known and now forgotten? It is only through my dance and my song that truly the words flow, but not in words the mind knows, for the mind knows nothing of my joys and my sorrows. The body, the rhythm, the vibration and resonance of soul spoken through echoes of my physical being.

I am one with all, I am separate from each, I am divine, I am wicked, I am whole, I am incomplete, I am a mystery to myself, and the answers I hold. I am a pattern of energy shifting with change, I am solid, I am real, I can feel, I am me. I am a fool I am ignorant, I am wise, I’m a sage, I am filled with compassion, I am filled with rage.

I know what happens when the soul dies away. First slips the dream, then the memory fades, and your life belongs to the expectations of everyone’s demands, and then you stand empty, fading like an ancient photograph till the color is gone, and you are ashes upon the funeral pyre of broken dreams and promises. I will wait you said, I will wait to do this, I will do this when…and “when” never comes.

I will not wait, I will not let the dream die, for the dream is the magic of the shadows of life. You know what happens when light and dark combine? When the empty vessel of darkness encases the energy of light? Why, it’s form that is made, and shadows are the stuff that dreams are made of! I am not afraid of my own shadow, for I know when it walks with me magic is about, and it is the magic of life that sparks the kindling of a dream. It is the dream that is believed in, and the dream that is lived, it is the dream that can be seen when no one else can see, and yet never doubted, that becomes real.

Magic like dreams is special stuff. It is the stuff that makes an old woman smile; a baby laugh; it is what makes the sun shine, and the grass green; it is what makes the light turn on, or music play on the radio; it is the knowing that comes before an event, of the outcome and the role you will play in it; it is the wishing for something, and the something becoming; it is the wildness within the soul that yowls at the moon, and desires to be wild and true to feelings within you.

Magic is the power that runs through all of life, it is the spirit, the prana, the chi, electromagnetics, and the fire that burns at a campfire, or within your heart. It is the magic of life that I live for, the magic I see in the hearts that dare to dream, it is the magic in my own heart that never lets the dream die, even when it seems it will never be.

Some may say a typical day is nothing to write home about, and the details sound a bit dreary, but is the little things that are never said that are truly what it’s all about. The way Sky Hawk said “I love you mom” and stroked my hair from my eyes, or the way Robin sings in the background happy to be he. It’s the look in Fire’s face when he says “come here you” and pulls me to his lap. It’s the way dinner turned out just right, and everyone raved what a good cook I am. It’s the chapter I read in a book that inspired my whole day, or the fun we had splurging at used stores, and all the people we met along the way.

Letters are boring I truly must say, for they say a lot of something, but nothing it seems. One must conjecture what is felt, or what is thought, and the tone or inflection is missing a lot. So here I am you see, sharing me, because I’m me!

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[tags]life, sharing, connection, philosophy, letters, desire, passion, purpose of living, dreams, self expression, life as art, cervantes, lockergnome, shadowmyth, teaching, dance, song, memories[/tags]