I just finished re-reading a wonderful book called Silverlock by John Myers Myers, a book I have read many times, savoring every word. Silverlock starts out his adventure as a snarky shipwreck survivor lost off the coast of San Francisco. Magic causes him to drift into a literary fantasy land known as the Commonwealth. After dramatic adventures involving heroes and villains culled from obscure literary references, he is dragged to the depths of hell, where he is forced to defend his existence, desperately crafting arguments to prove that life is worth living, despite all evidence to the contrary. As he is giving into despair, he is granted permission by the Delian Court to continue his journey because he has a cosmic mission to fulfill, if he can: to drink three times from the mythic spring of Hippocrene. The first drink is for recollection, so he won't forget what he's seen and learned in the Commonwealth. The second drink will give him the way to find his way back to the Commonwealth. The third is “the maker's drink,” no limit on what is possible. When he finally arrives, Silverlock manages two sips before he is magically thrown back into the Pacific to await rescue by a passing freighter, a changed man blessed with awareness of the gift of life. After reading Silverlock, I no longer have the will to complain. That is the power of a good book.
Maybe we all have an internal mythical spring of Hippocrene, beckoning us toward our dreams. It would be pleasant to think so. I'm a skeptic. I get irked with all the Do What You Love and Money Will Follow disciples, because my experience has demonstrated that it is a fallacious philosophy. But I'm a chronic malcontent. I'm genetically predisposed to look on the dark side. My bliss could be biting me in the ass right now and I wouldn't know it.
When I was young I didn't realize that the life I would lead later is the accumulation of all the little choices and actions I took from day to day, year to year. I never made the connection between my actions and my future. The times when I said no when I should have said yes, or the other way around, the harsh words spoken, the unfeeling shoulder, the desperate demands, the immersion in anything that would take away the pain of living... those moments were the building blocks of the life I have now. I don't think I'm complaining so much as having a small epiphany, tinged somewhat with regret, I admit.
Equipped with this realization, what now? Every action I take today helps construct my tomorrow. I guess it's like voting. If you didn't vote, you have no right to complain. I'm either running with the big dogs, or I'm cowering on the porch. I'd like to say I'm courageous, but I don't know what actions would demonstrate my courage. When my pain of the present is worse than my fear of the future, then I guess I'll change.
