Buddy Ray Earl Buddy Ray Earl
Author and Humble Observer of the Human Condition
 

Author Buddy Ray Earl as a youngsterA Bit About me

Even my very finest treasures are interwoven with some hard and bad things, in my life’s tapestry. A tapestry I find rich and beautiful, a surprise and wonder to examine, to me who lived it, almost completely unaware of life’s loom’s weaving. Far more astounding and wonderful than it could ever be, if it was made of good things alone. I’d dare not pluck out even the darkest threads, even if I was able. Too many of the brightest threads depend on dark ones in this weave. Pulling out even a single thread might unravel or diminish the whole.

Everyone has his own private life’s tapestry, each more wonderful than anything men can plan and weave. I’m convinced that all people’s tapestries have bright treasures in their weave, even in the very dark ones. Treasures that can be found and prized, if a person hasn’t set his heart elsewhere. When I examine the tapestry of my life, I see the bad parts, but without pain or denial. Past trauma is like that puff of smoke, long gone, and far away.

Of course, the darkest, most disgraceful threads to view, are where I could have and should have done better, but, lacking courage, strength, and wisdom, I failed, even failed miserably and very shamefully. I can only view those parts of my tapestry honestly, as they are, in repentance. Like my father, and his before him, I can’t erase the harm I’ve done, or even close my eyes to it, without losing the treasures.  I can take no joy in the dark parts of my past, but I don’t have to suffer from them, either. I can leave, even that, where Jesus flang it.

A little poem:

gentle breeze, leaves stir
tender sounds sooth my spirit
brother to the wind

but winds die quickly
the music that was, is not
too soon never was

nothing lost or gained
by all its earnest passion

but still, peace remains

I think it’s no great trick to love what is only perfect and good. To love good when it’s obscured by imperfection, is more.  A favorite old poem, that my mother, and many Ozark children, learned to recite:

 

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?' - The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered 'The names of those who love the Lord.'

'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said 'I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names who’s love God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

By Leigh Hunt

bUd

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