One Small Missive To A Friend



Too much sadness; far too much sorrow - from the knowing, the feeling, of my mistakes; from the knowing - the feeling - of having caused so much suffering. So I listen to the Aria from Bach's BWV 82 and I am overwhelmed. Tears of sadness, beauty, suffering, knowing: overcome with too little and yet too much: so much suffering for so little apprehension gained. So much suffering before, century upon century, for so little change, and I am left remembering as I was this morning under warming late August Sun when I wandered among the meadow-fields to sit myself upon dew-covered grass and close my eyes while the sun-warmth of an English Summer brought one small moment of an almost tragic respite.

No faith to redeem; no prayer to ease if only for a while the hurting burden of remorse. No allegory of hope to grasp and hold in needful arms which reach out to only the emptiness of this room, only the emptiness of that field where a Buzzard flew to shade me so briefly perhaps so fittingly from Sun. Yet - and yet - there is an intimation; one intimation, one reaching out beyond God, deity, toward a new burgeoning supra-personal love that I cannot quite grasp. Elusive, as the haunting dreams of night only partially remembered when we, sleepfull still, awake to hope that we can at least begin to hope, again.

One intimation of one needfull wordless love born from such a temporal knowing as breaks me down to one connexion upon one Earth; one transient form, fleeting between life, sorrow, death. Thus is there that deepfull needfull knowing of how I am cloud, dew, seed, soil and Sun; of how the years have worn me down to be only what I am: as the small golden Beetle crawled upwards upon that one stalk of breeze-swayed grass to be in that moment of my morning one connexion undefined undefinable of and to one unknown Cosmic Being breaking through while I sat in silence, observing as I the almost-broken did observe then in one pure undefiled moment of almost peace and purity of an undirected unrequited love...

And so the music and memory end, to leave this, only this; only such feeble words as these as burgeons forth again that yearning to be only and ever alone in such silence and solitude as may keep me mindful, hopeful, unable to cause or seek to cause ever again any suffering and able thus to feel again one more such moment of that elusive blissful-sadness.


Thus there is no longer any need nor desire in me to be, by others, understood...





DW Myatt