The waste basket is the writer's best friend
Singer is one of my favorite writers. His stories are fables that delve into the arcane heart to find the real meaning of existence. He is a story teller who respects a rich Jewish tradition. His writing is an homage to ancient wisdom yet he adds his own touches to the tapestry of words. I can see him scribbling away refining and refining as he eliminates the dross and seeks the gold. I am sure his basket overflowed with superfluous words and unimportant thoughts.
Life works in a similar fashion. In our mid-teens a strange manifestation takes place. A translucent cloak enwraps us and distorts our view of life. In our cocooned world of self-design, we see ourselves as the center of the matrix. There is a simplicity of thinking that was black/white and totally ego-bound. Those who peopled the world outside our center are perceived as either friends or enemies. Events and interactions are viewed as either glorious affirmation of our worth or devastating holocausts designed to destroy us.
As we mature, we are called upon to eliminate the deceitful constructs of youth. As the days pass, the sheaves of psychic skin that overgrew our eyes, our hearts and our souls begin to shed. At first the shreds fall infrequently and blow way in the wind unnoticed. But soon the hurts, sorrows and scars accelerate the cloak's decay. In our middle years the shedding may take on the proportions of a hurricane. Confused, in pain from the tearing way, we may seek refuge in the well worn paths of behaviour from our adolescent years but as the giant funnels continue to strip away the layers, our heart's sight begins to clear. The sheets of protection tossed into the universal wastebasket. It is through this process we realise the events of life are not for us or against us but just ARE. Like the weather or the weeds what is, Is.
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