I have misused the word calumny at least once in the last week. (I think, the week has been full to bursting.) What happened on Tuesday feels as if it occurred last year. One might think in a week filled with moments of inspiration, heavy work loads and ridiculous dramatics (in other words – a normal week) that focusing on such a simple error would be lost or at least forgiven.
But it’s not.
My mind is a cat sensing my little errors like mice under grass. My claws come out to scratch only myself. And I nod at the pain and feel it deserved. With every check and double check for someone else completed to a temporary satisfaction, my own words have been let to go awry. I convince myself repeatedly that I deserve pain. A misused word, a typo, buying the unbest Chinese New Year gifts, carry the weight of the world because they are my errors. My shame.
Recognizing the enormous ego needed to make one’s own errors hold sway over any and all actions of merit and true consequence in the world only adds velocity to the angst. Fast unthinking angst becomes rage. Action becomes reaction.
If I am guilty of one, I am guilty of all! A slander to the self only the self can accept or deny.
And then I hear it. A chuckle.
Oh, there is a molehill. Ready the crampons.
And then I see it. A spirit.
Let me in. I’m cold. Stop looking at that and look at me.
And then I finally feel it. A warrior.
Fuck that. There’s work to be done with or without you. I prefer with.
And then I know. The way a babe knows that everything is going to be okay when it is held in strong arms: I am lucky.
I cannot call it religion or faith that pulls me back and refortifies my strength and mind because I am not privy to that. I’ve not been obligated but honored to be able to hear and see and feel and know. I have been gifted richly of spirit and so I give generously of it in return to others. And when I begin to ride on a fumes of errors, an unknown benefactor deposits a few more precious drops of spirit in the tank. No weak calumny can withstand that kind of gift. It never has.
Reflecting on the Pagan Blog Project has had me questioning if my posts are pagan enough to be fit contributions to the effort. After some thought, the question as ceased to be relevant to me. However, I’ve not really enjoyed the C’s. They remind me of the cruel bent of a Proust question that makes a body reflect on the lowest depths of misery. A pagan life is far from miserable and it is my hope and intent that as the letters flow and the seasons change, another view will emerge.