B"H
Back to the question concerning the beauty of creative
productivity, the life and rhythm we infuse into the purpose of
being. Is there a cultural imperative that it must be shared? Does
the qualification of my will to survive or co mmit sui cide depend
on me garnering enough pleasure to make my endeavors
worthwhile to those I consider my significant others; after all, and
overall? Do I live, as an entity unto itself; people from past
generations seemed to have had a purpose, be it miniscule,
insignificant in its ra mifications, but enough to give them going
despite the hardships of life? You can obviate your answer by
thinking how Buddhist monks (millions of people) seek to avoid
pleasure; suffering because they train for desensitization to pain,
whereas we bring attention to ourselves by expressing pain . Our
destiny requires of us to take our lives into our hands; control the
use of our bodies to enhance our inner feelings of appreciation for
what I AM directly effecting interaction between my soul essence
and the physical world. The slime from my sweat will ease the
travel onto airwaves of the scent exuding fro m che micals pursuing
their underground routes in my veins, esophagus , ears, and from
the airwaves, ground and its roots wherein molecular elements are
exchanged with particles that co mplete the purpose of my life as a
human being in harmony with Mother Nature .
I mentioned the burial of my mother, as least to myself and may
I dare say, the procedures involved help keep alive her memories.
Could she send white feathers, as my sister claims, and would not
be so lucky had a cre mation took place; and to me be sending black
feathers cause I didn’t let the cre mation take place as required by
Jewish Law? It re minds me of the extensive telephone ca lls that
we siblings shared between the energy waves of cyberspace us
during mo m's last years. I live with a good feeling inside a habit
inculcated into my character by the mitzvah of keivood aym. But
I'm wanting here to draw attention to the me mory of mo m as a
libber, an abused wife, not infallible best mother anyone could
have hoped for, stupid as hell but stood up for her rights and would
say to the beast: "WHO IS SHE?!" when he addressed her in the
third person during fa mily meals. Who knows today what a fa mily
meal is every day of the week. What grandchildren have the eternal
merit of having been together every Sunday at Gra mma and
Gramp's? Culture of fa mily festivity, the unity of mankind
throughout our long history upon the face of the earth .
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