Aluah Self -- Three Faces of Me
Aluah is a simple, but multifaceted person.
Aluah Self Prelude
The three-headed wood carving above was carved just for me. I traded it for a sleeping bag that I had bought for $11 in the U.S., while in Jamaica. The piece of art was carved in 1975 by Morris Norman, a Jamaican man who had a fruit stand next to the campground (‘Strawberry Fields Forever’) that I and a traveling buddy were staying at.
We were on ‘vacation’, taking a break after two-and-a-half years straight from medical school. It was a confusing and low time in my life, and one of my boyhood friends had recently died in a car accident. I felt like -- if I had died then at age 24, that no one (including me) would really have known who I was.
At the campgrounds, I also met a writer from the Chicago Sun Times who inspired me to pursue my love for writing. My dad, who three years before had bought and became the publisher/editor of my hometown newspaper The Starbuck Times, was also an inspiration for me to consider writing as a life work. Up to then, people thought that I was a total science and medical type guy. Upon returning home, I quit medical school to become a writer.
Throughout my career, I have loved my work as a writer. However, the past 10 years have been filled with many personal losses, and my writings in ‘Aluah Self’ reflect my struggles during that time. I suppose, if those losses in my life hadn’t occurred, I never would have written any of the writings in this book. For that, I am thankful.
While my writings in ‘Aluah Self ‘ document a difficult time in my life, I am not there now, but at least I captured how I felt then. These writings are emotionally strong; so if you find them difficult to read, they were painful for me to write, and I even hesitated to include some of them in this book – but I have.
If you can relate to ‘Aluah Self’ in some way, then maybe both of us can move on to a better understanding of who we are and how we feel at a certain point in time of our lives,–maybe not unlike others who also feel the depth of human emotions.
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Ache of Separation
The ache of being adopted Is something That no one knows -- Unless we are adopted. The ache of being A foster child is something That no one knows -- Unless we are a foster child. The ache of being abandoned Is something That we don’t know -- Until we are abandoned. The ache of losing someone Is something That we don’t know -- Until we lose someone. The ache of being born alone Into this world, Like we all are -- Is something we all know. |
Prisons
Most of us think that prisons Are created by others. When in fact, most prisons Are created by ourselves. Prisons we love, Prisons so dear We live in them without fear Nor desire to escape. Prisons we hold onto And won’t even try Break out of. Prisons we make For us and others To comfort our mind And paralyze time. The feet are free to walk away From the chains that Cling, clank, and ding. We wait for some magic bell to ring That may call our name before we fall Into some type of lost land with a Bottomless pit of which we continue to dig With golden mitts so stained and tarnished That we can’t even see our gifts. Our prisons are all our own With no lock, fence, or gate – We just hold the keys Until it’s too late. |