Franz Kafka is my Hero

It is Monday, and so today is the writer's support group.  So far it is just me and my sister and a few friends.  Does that matter?  Not in the scheme of things.  

I am here in the Art Garage, listening to baby birds that were hatched up in the rafters, while the smell of burnt paper floats through the air.  The smell of things burning always worries me.  I mean, more than worry, I start to get panicky, my heartrate increases, my breathing gets more shallow and I can't explain it.    

Somewhat Random Non-sequeter: I have had a few flashes of past lives. These have come during meditation, and at times during work with therapists.  One experience, I have linked tp my viseral response to the smell of smoke.

In this past-life, my grandmother was my baby. I was her mother.  She died in a fire in an automobile accident.  So you can imagine the trauma around fire there. 

Now, thinking about it, there is another metaphysical possibility for my fear of fire. My mother's baby brother died in a house fire.  Afterwards, her mother was never the same, and eventually my mother was given up for the church to care for.  That's some serious layers of trauma there.

How multigenerational trauma plays out is fascinating, and in fact this post has nothing to do with fire, but does connect with multigenerational trauma, or rather multigenerational "aspirations".  

One of my spiritual teachers, Master Choa Kok Sui, founder of Pranic Healing, is definitely the product of multigenerational aspirations.  As a child he watched his father develop a cure for cancer.  He knew the significance of his father's work, and when his father died, this cure died with him.  Master Choa, saw this example and became obsessed with fulfilling his purpose.  He worked so tirelessly, most didn't even know he had heart trouble.  I am grateful for his work, and for his example.

Not all of us fulfill our dreams.  So what is it that makes the difference?

When I was young, my favorite poem was Langston Hughes "What Happens to a Dream Deferred?"

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

I remember giving my mom a candy jar with this poem painted on it, and it seem rather poignant right now.  Reflecting on this desire to write that both me and my sister share, it is clear that some of it may have arisen from my mom.  My mom was constantly talking about writing her book.  She would say it constantly, and occassionally she would have a chapter or two to share.  But she never succeeded, and although she is not gone, the spark is gone.  She has no interest in creating.  Her passion is gone.  It makes me sad, and a little angry.  She had something to share, and it will now be lost in the ethers of eternity.

Writing is about more than "getting your name out there".  It is not about fame or fortune or recognition.  Writing is about inspiration.  It is about our shared humanity, finding the connections between one another through the written word.  It is about being the channel to let the otherwise trapped emotions of the unseen experience be witnessed by others who can then release their own aloneness seeing their struggle in someone elses words.

Franz Kafka is my hero.  A strange person to have as a hero.  He worked as a bookkeeper in a bank, and struggled to find meaning in his life.  He had few relationships with others, and an attempt at a romatic relationship.  His life was cold, and he spent most of it depressed.  

And yet, he wrote.  He wrote, and re-wrote.  He was said to have corrected a single line of text dozens of times, finding the right words to express what he was feeling.  This outlet was for himself.  He did not publish anything he had written.  He had a friend, Max Brod, who he confided in.  A prolific writer, Franz trusted him.  He asked Max to burn everything he had written should he die.

When Franz Kafka died, Max started to fulfill his friends wishes, and stopped short.  Instead of burning all of his writings, Max had them published post-humously.  

Thank the Lord!  Reading Franz Kafka helped me feel less alone.  Through his words, I felt seen.  I felt a kindred spirit, and more than that I felt so grateful to have such beauty in the world.  His words touched my heart so deeply, that I found meaning for my life through them.  I didn't expect to become a great writer.  But I realized that if I could bring just a little beauty into the world, my life would have meaning.  

So through these stories, I discovered a path through life.  I sought ways of bringing something good, beautiful and true into the world.  This is still the guidepost for my life choices, and even though I am more at peace now with myself and the simple things of life, I am also so grateful to have found a deeper calling.  This I attribute to seeing how one man's suffering was not in vane.  

For Franz Kafka's Birthday we will Write, Write, and Write some more.

Join us on June 3rd (his death date) for the kick off of a 30 day writing challenge.
We will end on July 3rd (his birthdate) where we will host a writing marathon!

Thank you Franz for your Inspiration and Beautiful Writing.

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