“Shame on the man of cultivated taste who permits refinement to develop into fastidiousness that unfits him for doing the rough work of a workaday world. Among the free peoples who govern themselves there is but a small field of usefulness open for the men of cloistered life who shrink from contact with their fellows. Still less room is there for those who deride of slight what is done by those who actually bear the brunt of the day; nor yet for those others who always profess that they would like to take action, if only the conditions of life were not exactly what they actually are. The man who does nothing cuts the same sordid figure in the pages of history. There is little use for the being whose tepid soul knows nothing of great and generous emotion, of the high pride, the stern belief, the lofty enthusiasm, of the men who quell the storm and ride the thunder. “
And with some of Teddy’s words, a savage gentlemen if I say so myself, I brand into my life like runes of action and cunning fire. When a man’s time to emerge from the cultivated domesticity, and tame models of cyclic life ‘style’ calls him, he must contribute to the salt of the earth and water his own wells of wyrd. With his work, with his will, with his own blood and essence if he must. Like a volcano that erupts from the dark world below, and hardens its potential, creating new land to inhabit and explore above.
I have a confession, I am in the high summer of my life, and have been dealt a hand of passion in spades without the temperance to balance it, transcendent love of a wife without the key yoga of relationships, I have felt and earned great things but have fallen short of making any advances towards the sustainability, and longevity of a kingly life. Perhaps even these sentiments are illusions, and this last 9 month saga of my nomadic existence has only set me up for another apotheosis, and evolutionary leap. Nine is the magic of Odin, and the layers of the worlds, and the birthing ritual. I don’t take it lightly, that these times have hardened me in the forge of the dwarves creation, re-birthed me with new traits to bring to the world. So here I am, walking in the forever hallways and change, and consternation, and I’m inviting them in for tea.
I feel myself enacting and reliving the poignant lines of Kipling’s IF, as if they were a owner’s manual to my 29 years, a kind of modern english Havamal, for the right man, the true man, the good man, and the man that is good at being a man. I wonder how many I meet in my daily life have asked themselves the hard questions. I am starting all over, re-building the temple of my body, sending fractal branches out from soul-self to reach the outer and innermost places of growth. I’m starting all over, a kind of Buddhist non-attachment to one’s narrative, you just keep going, fiercely trust in yourself, and let others tell your tale, of the hero’s journey. I’ve left part of my life behind on the roadside until I can circle back and retrieve it, when my pack is lighter, or until I am stronger to carry it.
I’ve started on a new hustle, to get me to the place where I want to be. Bearing the brunt of the day’s labor as a sacrifice for more lofty gains. Putting my time in the working man’s world, though still self employed with core discipline. I find it hard to commit to one thing, one place, one experience. I feel as a lion who is exploring his territory, though he knows home as a symbolic place of safety. But I bit off more than I could chew, and the precious meat spoiled. I lost something of what was precious to me, and this catered my experience for nearly two moons. Estrangement from kin followed, and was held fast by fear and chaos. One must sometimes put their hand in the maw of the beast, or become one himself, and call on Tyr’s order, to balance out the chaos. Behind and within the chaos is paradise, as I trace it back to the script of my own soul, still emblazoned with its source convictions, undressed of its dross, unlearned of its negative conditioning, pure and vital intentions, actions matching words. No matter what happens, the operation of self growth continues; like a house animal that instinctively knows it is feral, and powerful, and claims a life for his own. The bird has flown its coop, and remembers how to fly.
Taking nothing but a tent, a military sleeping bag, a couple choice books and a armful of clothes, I’ve taken to camp life, to quiet my needs, focus on my labors, and tend to a more spartan existence, while I invest in the greater work, keeping my head in check, my inner tether tied to heart and everything I know of value. The mission continues, the day remains the same; A good day to die, and a good day to live.