He said that love of mankind is greater than love of one man. For when you love one person you are merely loving yourself.

From the diary of Etty Hillesum, Monday, 4^th August 1941, 2:30pm

It could not be better,

This paintbrush which comes out at each present moment,

Moving air, salt-filled water,

To massage our bodies and spirits.

Especially, at days end,

Where God takes a final, blessed bow.

Seems like the day is done once more.

Time for a seagull to reflect, or hope the surfer has a snack for me.

As others, who cannot swim, tread lightly on the wooden deck,

To reach out in a dry way to meet the sun and sea.

 

One more time.

Once, I was full of purpose.

Or thought I was,

Or thoughts made me follow a purpose,

Or was it a thought I liked to follow,

Or was the journey the purpose,

Or the idea of the journey,

Which gave me a purpose.

 

If I have a purpose,

Do I mean something?

And/or does the purpose give me meaning?

Or the meaning give me purpose?

Perhaps it was someone else’s purpose after all.

 

Seems like the more purpose I have the less I have,

Perhaps my purpose has been to follow desire,

And that is my purpose,

Or the intention of my purpose?

How can I tell?

 

By relinquishing my purpose?

Let it all be gone.

The pride.

  

Let it be gone.

My self-glory.

Let it be gone.

Thoughts of a different life or path.

Let it be gone.

The past mistakes.

Let them stand.

The past wins.

Let them live their lives.

My tendency to interfere.

Let it be gone.

My intention to love. And love only.

Let it remain and grow.

It’s been a long road,

Tarmac, concrete, dirt filled tracks and open fields,

They all keep coming regardless.

 

Still, the walking goes on,

Relationships, discussions, collisions, loving unions,

They all happen, not stopping progress.

 

And while the miles pass by quickly,

Nothing is achieved,

The impact left in a vapor trail, never tasted, always left behind.

 

So, at last, I see more trails ahead,

And realize, I have achieved nothing, and yet seem somehow glad,

Or at least not dissatisfied about it.

 

As I head towards home.

Today, I don’t have to make the long walk to the farmer’s field,

For today we are here with what is left of our family.

My mother is busy in the kitchen readying the ingredients for the spice cake.

The hallmark of Christmas in rural Ireland. 1943.

 

I turned 14 yesterday; soon my part time activities will turnover in a few days from now.

Gone will be forever the school days of Carricarrig,

No longer a need to fill the lock with stones,

Or other pranks to avoid learning.

 

Mother’s soft voice comes from the kitchen,

“Fetch some turf Michael” and I know I will be venturing out again,

In the dank cold, to sneak across fields and take what is not ours to fuel the fire.

Mother would never endorse such theft, but neither does she know the turf is not ours.

After a successful commando raid, the turf is safely home,

Mother kindles the fire in readiness for the baking in the simple oven,

And soon enough, the smell of oriental spices and smoldering sultanas spreads over BallyLoughHane.

 

A Christmas indeed. No other present save that of Baby Jesus needed.