If you allowed you to love yourself, the rough diamonds languidly studding all the curves of your underground, you would understand how silly it is to wish you were more. You already are so much.
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The Love
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When I can afford no clothes, these I have are sanctified; the threadbare are forgiven and loved. That they exist is the miracle. That I have any at all is God’s blessing. When I can afford what is my wont, a new criteria rules the wardrobe. Holy is rendered crumby and the faith that held the threads together is unraveled; a new regime overlooks the angels guarding tramps.
Tom Sawyer
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When the sun colors the sky,
the girl dons on her red frock
embroidered with flowers,
is bevvied with joy,
dancing in celebration,
petal–eyelids open unto awe.
With just the same heart
When the moon woos,
our lady is wrapped
in her black dress,
bubbles and stews,
cackling, agape at the universe,
irises open to the multitude,
cherishing each star a sun.Witch’s Brew
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But to expand on that, and to perhaps give you something of an answer anyway: this is very much true for me in software development too. I like the *process*. I like writing software. I like trying to make things work better. In many ways, the end result is unimportant – it’s really just the excuse for the whole experience. It’s why I started Linux to begin with – sure, I kind of needed an OS, but I needed a *project* to work on more than I needed the OS.
In fact, to get a bit “meta” on this issue, what’s even more interesting than improving a piece of software, is to improve the *way* we write and improve software. Changing the process of making software has sometimes been some of the most painful parts of software development (because we so easily get used to certain models), but that has also often been the most rewarding parts. It is, after all, why “git” came to be, for example. And I think open source in general is obviously just another “process model” change that I think is very successful.
So my model is kind of a reverse “end result justifies the means”. Hell no, that’s the stupidest saying in the history of man, and I’m not even saying that because it has been used to make excuses for bad behavior. No, it’s the worst possible kind of saying because it totally misses the point of everything.
It’s simply not the end that matters at all. It’s the means – the journey. The end result is almost meaningless. If you do things the right way, the end result *will* be fine too, but the real enjoyment is in the doing, not in the result.
And I’m still really happy to be “doing” 20 years later, with not an end in sight.
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I didn’t realize the candle to refrain from hiding was my own, not some super–candle I would one day acquire or already had that was better than my real one. I didn’t realize the money to refrain from burying was my pocket change: all that I had in the world. I didn’t realize the virgins weren’t particularly chaste, but just so young they might not trust their own wicks.
Bushels and Virgins
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I kiss the light, bathed in love. I am exhausted and defeated, unable to deny my tragedies were my own concoction; it was me who held my nose as I imbibed its bitterness. Faith stands, still unblemished, present to life, vulnerable to wholesomeness, permissive of its good nature. She smiles as I let go of fear to hold the hand that was always there.
Kind Eyes
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I know not how many tiers your fountain. It proudly stands in the piazza. All I have is my pitter–patter, pitter–patter–pit, softly, gently, hard to notice — continually, till drip and splash and undulation, reverberation, over the edge and overflowing over every lip.
Cohesion
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Oh, drat. That worst kind of love, that listeth, smiles anon, does not scheme, expect, or devise, is content merely to be. Oh, this gets me nowhere, is too patient, has nothing to show for itself — careless: I cannot leverage you.
Stymied
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I’d go out into the world and find that marrow I feel in my bones must needs be found; a pause before the gate to check should there be anything upon these grounds or, maybe, give me time as I traipse amid the ants between the blades of grass here. I’m not going anywhere.
Thoreau
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I sing to you, brass belle, deep, in your frequency, a joyful tone till two smiling wench’s eyes blink knowingly, happily back at me. Enthralled, you open your mouth and bless the reverberations with ethereal delight. Us two laughing, broomless witches clasp hands in the wind and fly.
Taken
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