Memories of Autumn

The following was copied and pasted with permission from the author just as it appeared on social media.

From my memories:

I keep wanting to write on my blog, then, I think what is the point? Life is this big shithole. We get a few days of happiness and a million days of sorrow. Even the best, most popular, wealthy, beautiful among us wither away and end up under the earth, buried, forgotten. How long will it take to forget me when I am gone? And, honestly, I don't balme anyone for forgetting me. I don't deserve to be remembered. What did I do with my "precious gift"? Not much really. I spent those few happy days laughing in the sun, pretending they would never end, ignoring the looming darkness on the horizon. I survived through each of those million shitty days, crawling on my hands and knees through the mud and the shit, reaching...food...water...shelter...I spend all my time trying to keep those wrigley things in my hands, (I have dropped one or the other so many times) but that's it. I never did anything great. I let myself down. I let my family down. I made everyone uncomfortable with my transparency. I turned everyone against me with my awkward personality, my inability to talk small, my bluntness. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to be except myself, I can't pretend to be what everyone wants me to be. I am a terrible liar, a terrible actor. I can't be anything, but real. I asked God to help me, but I guess He isn't listening. Maybe he hates me, too. Then, I hear a trombone echo through the house like a little sad, but hopeful seed that is trying to bloom through a heavy cement lot. It is beautiful. A trombone...my daddy, the musical genius' (until God took away his hands and feet) favorite instrument. I feel proud. I can hear him learning. The sound of learing sounds so good. I can hear his soul. I am proud. I peek in his room, I watch his eyes, his face, His cheeks swollen like a bullfrog's jowls. I see passion and contentment in those eyes. His face is relaxed and playful, the way any child is when they think they are alone. I feel a stabbing pain in my heart. In my mind, I pray. Oh God, don't let them snuff him out! Don't let the teachers and opportunity givers in his life look him over because he's poor, because his parents are fucked up, because he is of color, like they so often do, like I have seen over and over in my life. God, don't let them make him bitter. Let me forever be the umbrella covering his head, please, God. These young'uns are all I have. Life sucks. People suck, I can't leave them here alone with the small minds and spirit breakers of this world 

~ Autumn Lynn Rigney 

 The reason for the repost is because so much of this written piece resonated with me, and in a few ways the author's sentiments about life, sentiments which are clearly transparent and heartfelt, remind me of the days when I was "on the fence" about God's existence. 

So, the author wants to write a new blog entry but she wonders what the point would be? Been there; done that. A few posts back I even touched on this very subject; that is, if everything we do, feel, and say ends up in the abyss of nothingness, then yeah, asking what the point is actually is a fair question. It can all fall on deaf ears. At least while we're alive it can.  

But she makes a fair point---in a few short generations after we're gone, even any remaining memories of us will fade away, too. All that will be left is stories about us and anything we might have created while alive..e.g.. music, books, artwork, movies, etc. This of course would include anything we might have published on the World Wide Web..e.g...blogs.

And yes, the ratio of happy days to sorrowful days can take the wind out of a person's sail fairly quickly, although, some would argue that it's all relative and that it mostly boils down to simple perspective---that it's not about what bad things happen to us, but how we react to those things that counts. Well, okay, sure..... sometimes. 

The author is right though; that is, it doesn't matter how popular, wealthy, or beautiful we are, because we all end up the same. But curiously, this does not generally fit the profile of a person of faith. No, because a person of faith has convinced him or herself that some of us definitely do end up better off than others. Not because of wealth or popularity, but because of belief. If you have the right beliefs floating around in your head? You're good to go. And this should be a no-brainer, should it not? Well, sure it should, provided we can just choose what to believe or not believe.

I won't pretend to know where the author stands, but I think it's a safe bet that if she's a person of faith that she is now experiencing doubt and skepticism. Maybe even cynicism? And if so, so what? Doubt is a normal reaction anytime ideas or even real events cause cognitive dissonance. Skepticism? Skepticism weeds out error.  And cynicism? Isn't it warranted sometimes? A parent tells his or her child that they are coming home, but 10, 20, 30, 40 years later the parent is still a no-show? How could this not make a child cynical?

While I am sad to read that the author feels alone and fears she will be forgotten, I'm glad to hear her at least mention a few things that give her life meaning here and now, even if it's just memories. Because this is where the true rewards are; that is, the only ones that we can know for sure we have. Let these memories be the umbrella that covers Autumn's head.