Friends Along Our Path (Updated and reposted from 10/1/15)

The Path

This is my path.

It is not your path, it is mine.

Good or bad, it is my path.

I must travel my path alone.

That is your path.

It is not mine or theirs, it is yours.

Good or bad, it is your path.

You must travel your path alone.

At times our paths might intersect

Or, run parallel for a while.

We will visit, laugh, and cry.

Exchange experiences and offer advice.

At some point, we may part

Perhaps to join up again,

As our destination is the same

And our journey is long.

I wish you a smooth path,

And a long and interesting journey

Full of emotion and life,

Family and friends.

We will not arrive together,

At the final destination,

But, I will wait for you, my friend,

As I know you will wait for me.

For the second time, I have received requests to reprint this piece of poetry and, now, the post as well.  I edited the grammar a bit, as I always do.  Since its first publication, on 1 October 2015, this post ranked as my most read.  Now that it is 2022, that rank had been surpassed by so many others.  It is hard for me to believe seven years have gone by, and that I've actually been at this task for nine years.  I've noticed that time seems to slip by faster as I get older.  But, as I always say, time is nothing more than a human concept.  Therefore, as my mother lied about her age when she turned 30, I too have decided to stop aging and let our concept of time do as it pleases.  But, as I approach 70, I bemoan the fact it took me 40 more years than her to make this logical decision.

I used to write poetry back in the late 1970s and then abandoned the habit after accumulating a "book" of it which I believed, at the time, was much too personally insightful.  Needless to say, one morning in the Intelligence Division, I "accidentally" Ollie North'd the collection, I shredded it, along with the past week's classified intelligence message traffic.  I've often wondered if there was a subconscious intent, those many years ago, possibly due to my personal life being in the toilet.  I was to fight to save my marriage for another 15 or so years.  After 25 years of "wedded bliss," it ended.

I have tried to start writing poetry again, but that particular muse is a shadowy phantom that is loath to manifest itself more, it would seem, the older I get.  I am equally loath to allow anyone the opportunity to breach the protective walls of my redoubt.  Not very often is it, however, my heart, or mind, will overcome my lack of material, or another "special" individual will spark the tinder of my creative furnace.  I have found one who could, but she is more of a daughter I never had the pleasure of.

I have found this latest verse, above, to be much more telling of my current mental state, having discovered with age that life presents lots of "elephant feces" which I really don't need to waste energy on, not the least of which are those comments which spew forth from the pie holes of the countless members of the League of the Perpetually Offended.  What is my attitude about this apparent "waste of humanity" which tries to insinuate itself into my life?  I simply try not to care about their perpetual petty selfishness, and humbly ask them to get off my path so I might continue along in the same peace I wish for them, disregarding any ill that might cross my mind.

I find poetry, like art, is a matter of taste.  The poet, like the artist, is trying to communicate as much to themselves as to others.  To the academic community, poetry is defined in multi-syllable "let me show you how much smarter I am than you" speak; so few of us "commoners" understand it:

Poetry is a form of literature that uses aesthetic and rhythmic qualities of language—such as phonaesthetics, sound symbolism, and metre—to evoke meanings in addition to, or in place of, the prosaic ostensible meaning.

Poetry uses forms and conventions to suggest differential interpretation to words, or to evoke emotive responses. Devices such as assonance, alliteration,onomatopoeia and rhythm are sometimes used to achieve musical or incantatory effects. The use of ambiguity, symbolism, irony and other stylistic elements of poetic diction often leaves a poem open to multiple interpretations. Similarly figures of speech such as metaphor, simile and metonymy create a resonance between otherwise disparate images—a layering of meanings, forming connections previously not perceived. Kindred forms of resonance may exist, between individual verses, in their patterns of rhyme or rhythm.

-- Wikipedia, "Poetry"

I'm almost impressed.  Well, reading the Wikipedia definition of poetry makes me want to immediately run out to my local bookseller for some interesting poetry to read. The definition gives some credence to Socrates who once said, "I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled poets to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean."  I think most of us have a general idea what Socrates meant, and what poetry is; if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck, unless its Japanese "haiku," which makes my eyes cross and allows drool run freely down my chin while I lose control of my bladder.  Haiku is best read after smoking some sort of mind-altering herb or drinking several straight shots of bourbon.  I mean, if you're going to be comatose after reading it anyway, you might as well enjoy killing the brain cells, right?

Have you ever wondered why most of us remember only snippets of famous poems?  More than five or six quatrains, those four-line stanzas, is about all I can stomach much less try to remember.  Like an "all-you-can-eat" casino buffet, it seems better to just indulge in the delicious "meat" of poetic verse, the interesting substance, than to drown in the carbohydrates which surround it.  I think this is probably the way most of us think, and why we latch onto the most meaningful verse, as in Robert Burns' poem, A Red, Red Rose: 

O my Luve is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve is like the melody 

That’s sweetly play'd in tune.

Those of us that actually received a quality education will remember this piece, but can we remember the rest of it?  It isn't all that long, as poems go, yet the entirety escapes many of us.  In this way, I think poetry truly reflects our lives as we travel our paths.  We remember the interesting meat of it, but the fluff seems to fall by the wayside.  When it comes to remembering people, however, I seem to be even less discerning, a trait I recognize and, yet, fall prey to.

Referencing the photo at the beginning of this post: which of the three would you be more apt to remember?  The cute little girl, the loyal friend, or the jackass?  Perhaps, like me, there is a member of the League of the Perpetually Offended who is most memorable for you.

The truth is, anyone we meet can be a friend along our path, as long as we are willing to treat them as we would want to be treated.  With enough tolerance, love, and understanding, even the jackass among us, like myself, can be seen as worthy friends, and might even find a gentler path for themselves due to our ministries.  But, many of whom we meet are destined for the fluff pile because we just don't seem to have the time, or won't make time, to allow them a chance to become a cherished memory, a permanent part of our memory, our life, and our journey.  Even those we are aware we should probably take time to know better, are simply passed up like vegetables at a buffet in favor of the all-you-can-eat crab, shrimp, pork ribs, or prime rib.

I will go out this week and make a conscious effort to meet someone new, possibly at an inexpensive bar. With any luck, they might shake up my inner poetic self, but the real gift, as often overlooked, will be the memory of meeting them, like so many others along my journey. I hope the women have great legs.

The challenge for each of us is to make time for our fellows. It takes such little effort. Make the effort, for yourself, and for others. As a matter of fact, try making an effort daily to make a new acquaintance. Whether they become a friend or not, your life and theirs will be all the richer for having known each other and for having made the effort.

Not familiar with haiku?  Enjoy:

"The cut end of

A fresh-felled tree --

Tonight's moon"

-- Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694)

Editor's Note

(Re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card)

Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so. This is also why, occasionally, I will present an "opinion" just to stir an emotional pot. Where it may sound like I agree with the statements made, I'm more interested in getting others to consider an alternate viewpoint. 

It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and while engaging in peaceful and constructive discussion, in an arena of mutual respect, concerning those opinions put forth. After over twenty years with military intelligence, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we learn from the experience, and what we do afterward.

Pastor Tony spent 22 years with the United States Air Force Intelligence as a planner, analyst, briefer, instructor, and, finally, a senior manager. He spent 17 years, following his service career, working with the premier, world-renowned, Western Institutional Review Board helping to protect the rights of human subjects involved in pharmaceutical research.

Ordained 1n 2013 as an "interfaith" minister, he founded the Congregation for Religious Tolerance in response to intolerance shown by Christians toward peaceful Islam. As the weapon for his war on intolerance he chose the pen, and wages his "battle" in the guise of the Congregation's official online blog, The Path, of which he is both author and editor. "The Path" offers a vehicle for commentary and guidance concerning one's own personal, spiritual, path toward peace and the final destination for us all. He currently resides in Pass Christian, Mississippi, where he volunteered as the lead chaplain at a regional medical center.

Feel free to contact Pastor Tony:  tolerantpastor@gmail.com