Terminus

Dear Reader,

     It occurred to me late in my undergraduate studies that I might be a Writer.  I sought ways to discern this, to "tease" out its verity (hence the url and purpose of this blog).  After a lot of internal dialog, and a little external use of my closest friends as sounding boards (earning myself no little amount of ridicule--"Poet with a capital P, huh?"), I finally came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, my vocation to be a Writer.  
     "So," I wondered to myself, "when can I begin writing?"  Having discerned that I was a Poet and that the means to this was through letters, I set myself to patiently waiting for the right words to come (a sort of impatient patience).  Sure, I practiced in my journal, or in letters, or in writing projects I gave myself, but none of it really seemed like the material for sharing.  I read everything, many different authors, and closely studied their styles.  I'd think of ideas for books, and two chapters in I'd lose interest (my favorite was a pseudo-autobiographical novel in the style of "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man" seeking to demonstrate that the young man of poetic disposition can find fulfillment in religious life. I was gonna call it "A Dry Weary Land Without Water" or just "Thirst").  I waited and waited for inspiration to strike me and nothing came and angst transformed my patience into impatience and I rued the fact that I am a Writer with no words and I dubbed myself the Curséd Poet.  I felt called to assemble the beautiful, but wasn't given the right parts.  
     I have, until now, considered my lack of inspiration to be a cruel joke on the part of the Giver of Inspirations.  I have incredulously clung to the misnomer Curséd Poet, outwardly denying what was whispered in my heart: this is a blessing.  How many Writers die in silence, their gifts wasted on none but the eyes of the Lord!  These Writers are truly held close to His heart, for their craft solely benefits Him who reads the verse in their souls.  They are the reed that hums in the Desert Palace, the wildflowers that grow in the Private Royal Gardens.  "Curséd" is the furthest adjective from describing them.  At first I thought that maybe "Blesséd" would be better, but that seems unfair to those reeds planted in the public city garden.  No, I've finally settled on "Belovéd", because this fittingly captures the unique intimacy of the Silent Writers.  They are Belovéd Poets, for their earthly silence is heavenly polyphony!  I am grateful to be counted in their number, that, like David, I play in the courts of the King.  
     Which brings me to the point.  I am a Belovéd Poet, whose craft (for the time being) has been given no call for earthly expression.  Therefore, this blog (which was created for the purpose of discerning my Poetic telos, and helped immensely in that effort) has now become an occasion of temptation.  See, when given the means for the public expression afforded by this blog (despite its readership of 3 individuals), the angst that sometimes seizes me to publish my thoughts is, in fact, an abuse of my vocation as a Belovéd Poet. 
     This blog could cause me to become prolific when I ought to be silent.  The danger is that I will lack very many unpublished thoughts, raining words on people that are meant for Him alone.  It is a great horror to consider that this blog could be means for abusing my vocation.  The words might, from time to time, be pleasing, but in their perversion this attraction would amount to little more than literary sophistry, and ought not to have ever left the pages of my journal.  I must be silent until bidden to speak, if that bidding ever comes!  
     So this is goodbye, at least for now.  This blog has outlived its purpose, so the time has come to bring it to an end.  Thank you for reading!

Goodbye [forever?],
    J. P. Jeremiah

p.s. So as to take a dump on everything I've just written: a poem!

      The Pillow Prayer of a Saint
For though, the way, I can't be faring,
And find, I can't, a path more wearing,
I find in Thee, Lord, none more caring,
And You in me, Lord, none more daring.
Each step, from me the world is tearing,
And dangers round me, flint strike, flaring,
Still I, to You, in dark am pairing,
Alone I'm left with You, Love sharing.