Purpose: A Journey to Wisdom

By Charles Blount

This book will make the reader question his or her own purpose and may help define his or her specific personal quest. This trilogy builds from one book to another and has its high point in Purpose: A Journey to Wisdom as the author begins to find peace, acceptance and satisfaction with the decisions which have led him to his present position in life. However, as you will also discover, the quest goes on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524656621

Charles Blount

Charles Blount, born and raised in the South Bronx, lived the life he explains in his book, Whatever Happened to Charlie Boy. He earned a B.A. in Paralegal Studies from Virginia Intermont College, Bristol, Virginia. Through the love and support of his extended family, Charles Blount found his “voice” to describe the forces of abuse, failure, and despair, seemingly inherent in his world as a child. These ‘forces’ proved to be inadequate in destroying the inner strength he used to rise above all that was against him. Currently, he devotes himself to working with “at-risk” children, by providing support and guidance to those who are navigating their way through tribulations. Charles believes that sacrifice builds strength; strength builds determination and determination yields success. Charles Blount, currently resides in Asheville, North Carolina with his daughter, Chloé Elisabeth.            

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Purpose

A Journey to Wisdom

Charles Blount

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2017 Charles Blount. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/28/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5663-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5662-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016921622

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1: Childhood Demons

Chapter 2: The Program

Chapter 3: The Jackson Family

Chapter 4: The Taxi Ride

Chapter 5: A Clean Slate

Chapter 6: Lasting Impressions

Chapter 7: Perception

Chapter 8: The Confession

Chapter 9: A Special Call

Chapter 10: Turning Back The Clock

Chapter 11: The Window

Chapter 12: The Journey

Chapter 13: The Orphan’s Home

Chapter 14: A Breakthrough

Chapter 15: The Island

Chapter 16: The Real World

Chapter 17: New Path

Chapter 18: Sam’s Gap

Chapter 19: Just A Piece Of Paper

Chapter 20: Job Opportunities

Chapter 21: Change Of Direction

Chapter 22: Wake Up Call

Chapter 23: Asheville: The City In The Sky

Chapter 24: Opportunity Knocks

Chapter 25: Test Of Character

Chapter 26: Father I Pray

Chapter 27: No Longer The Dumping Grounds

For Thomas Kelly,

A man of love and wisdom

Acknowledgment

There are many people I wish to thank for their support in my journey to discover my purpose, and there will be others as I continue this quest.

First, I would be utterly incapable of any accomplishment without the guidance of a loving and forgiving God. To you, I say, thank you for the opportunity and ability to learn about myself … to think, reason, ask, and wonder. The challenges you have given me from childhood have guided me like a football player from kick-off to touch down. For all of this and more, I am grateful to you alone.

To Thomas, you were the Dad you didn’t have to be, but because you wanted to be. You will forever have my undying love. Most importantly, you will always have my respect as the man who helped transformed me from a boy into a man. Sharing interchangeable space on this planet and breathing the same air, as you have been both an honor and a privilege. You have consistently been a man of honesty and integrity, sharing so unselfishly with me, opening your love, and your wisdom with me. I love you dad and so do all your grandchildren. Also, most importantly, thanks for being my rock.

To my grandmother, thank you for all your wisdom, love, compassion, and prayers. Your constant prayer has moved me from the concrete jungle to this present day. I love you, grandma. With every breath, I take. By the way, thank you also for my childhood piggy bank Mr. Rainy. I still have him.

To my grandfather, who I have no doubt watches over me, the one you used to call your little math man. I cherish the strength and perseverance you’ve gifted me. Your grandson has added up to more than his beginnings. I love you, Granddaddy. God blesses you and rests in peace.

To my beautiful daughter, Chloé, a native of North Carolina, one of the most beautiful places on the planet. North Carolina is a fitting place, for such a beautiful young woman. I am grateful to you every day. You continue to be the miracle I first saw in the delivery room. I am the man that I am today because of you. You are without a doubt the love of my life. I love you.

To my photographers, Christopher Waring and Crystal M. Shue, thank you for capturing such amazing pictures.

Lastly, to each of you, there have been many times, I have been remiss in my responsibilities. Perhaps, I had not often called as I should have or said, I love you when someone had needed to hear it from me. Whether in this life or the next, I love you all.

Word of Wisdom

Purpose is not just an individual achievement to discover one’s own self, but about touching other people’s lives. I came to these words early in life; these are the words I live by.

Introduction

This book is a personal exploration of defining a purpose, grounded in the belief that purpose is the compass of our lives on this earth. Optimally, we should have a purpose for who we are and who we aspire to be. The purpose should steer the course.

Often the domain of theologians and philosophers, the conclusions to the question of human beings’ purpose on earth have run the gamut from the predetermined assignment by a higher intelligence to searching people adrift in a godless, indifferent universe. In all situations, the choice of purpose resides in the individual’s freedom to choose or not choose the mission at hand.

Freedom is an individual standing in front of a mirror, and responsibility is its reflection. To have a meaningful and purposeful life, we must accept that freedom is a prerequisite for choice, and responsibilities are its consequence that cannot be just ignored.

We as human beings have the shared reality that the time between our births and deaths is what upon which we will be judged or measured. Whether it will be a life filled with acquisition, materialism, status, and self-aggrandizement or one of the service and the benefice to others are a matter of individual choice.

Chapter 1

CHILDHOOD DEMONS

THERE SNUGGLED UNDER THE COVERS. I turned over on my side facing the brown wooden clock. The sound of the clock slowly flipped to 12:15 a.m. The longer, I stared at the numbers, the sleepier I became. As I started to feel myself drift off to sleep, this was routine. Sleep found me standing into a flooded white hallway. I began walking in the long hallway. Attentive to every step, I hear childhood screams and crying echoing around me, Please stop! You’re hurting me! You don’t love me! I hate this world! I wish I were dead! Mommy, you said that you loved me! Please don’t leave us! God, where are you?! I begin running down the hallway, as water is splashing against my legs. The screaming faded with the light.

Now standing right in front of my old brown apartment door in the Bronx, I felt something hitting my ankles. I looked down, and pieces of paper are floating past me, and piling up next to the door. There was something terrifying about this place. I reached for the doorknob, but it slowly opened on its own. I quickly snatched my hand back and eased into the apartment that had flickered lights. There was just an awful smell coming from somewhere inside. I carefully walked farther into the entryway and peered around the corner. When I stopped and so did the lights. As I entered the kitchen, I could see a woman standing at the counter in what appeared to be a white floral print dress. That was stained and dingy and in her mouth hung a cigarette with the ashes hanging precariously from the end. She was chopping up, what seemed to be raw fish and as her knife fell to the chopping block, the door slammed behind me in sync. Wanting so much to turn around and run away, I froze.

She raised her hand high again as if to make another chop, but stopped immediately with her hand still in the air. I felt an instant chill run through my body, as my heart pounded so heavily against the walls on my chest I knew she could hear it.

She slammed the knife down chopping off the head of the fish and looked slowly over her shoulder, peering at me out of the corner of her eyes. She came out of the kitchen and away from me. I looked at the counter and there laid the remains of a fish and a burning cigarette. She yelled out, Charlie Boy, where the fuck is you, you little bastard! You wait until, I get my hands-on you boy! I’m going to beat your little fucking ass! I tried catching up with her. Despite the anxiety, I was experiencing, everything she passed turned into an article for destruction and the water, which at some point turned bloody, was steadily rising. The walls of the apartment scorched and grungy, covered with cracks like spider webs; warped picture frames dangled on their hooks.

The woman that I feared was no longer within sight. As I moved down the hall, on the right was a door with the words carved in it, Why me? Fearing what was on the other side; the door creaked as I turned the knob pushing it opened, and I entered a gleaming white room to my shocking surprise. The room was bare, except, a small boy and a clock. The clock on the wall seemed frozen in time both hands on the number nine.

Strangely enough, in such a clean, untouched room, the little boy sat curled up facing the corner dressed in filthy, tattered, and torn clothing. He whispered, I’ll be good. I promise! I kneeled, placing my hand gently on his shoulder trying not to startle the little boy. He turned slowly around, looking directly into my eyes, with years of pain and fear upon his face. He said, she’s coming for you. As he removed his tiny hand from his chest, I could see that he was bleeding. I found this small boy to be familiar and it was then that I realized the little boy was me! I felt the air go out and my body, I felt dizzy, and I fell backward as he turned back towards the wall again and just like that, the distorted vision of my childhood was gone.

I found myself, then, in the pouring rain, standing outside the entrance to a cemetery. Dressed entirely in white, and barely able to see through the rain, I heard thunder. I opened the squeaky black gate. I started walking towards a crowd of people sitting under a tent near a large tree. I noticed an empty seat in the back; I walked over and sat down. What was I doing here? The minister was delivering a moving eulogy over a champagne gold finish coffin as it lowered into a freshly dug grave. He solemnly prayed, The Lord is my shepherd … and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever and ever. Amen. His voice sounded beautiful I felt at peace.

Although, I couldn’t recognize anybody, I could hear his or her cries. People started getting up one by one walking to and passing the coffin as they threw their roses into the grave. I was the last person underneath the tent. I removed my shades, and as I stood to my feet, everything around me had vanished, and as I looked around, I realized I was standing right in front of this unique and beautiful headstone. Hesitant, I kneeled to see the inscription on the stone that read, I forgive you. Followed by Rest in peace young warrior … and reflected my name and date of birth. Before I could see the year of death, my vision faded.

From this unwanted deep sleep, I awoke suddenly, my stomach sticking to the sheet as I lay in a pool of sweat. My heart was racing. I felt like a drowning man looking everywhere for the surface for just one breath, staring up at the ceiling. It took my mind a while to sort through what was legitimate and what was not. Still trying to catch my breath. I looked over at the clock; it read 3:15 a.m., I rubbed my face in frustration. My fears flourished when I slept. My waking hours devoted in conscious direction, and the movement gave me strength and kept my greatest fears at bay. At night, in the peaceful presence of my sleeping home, my fears feasted on my unsuspecting conscious. I rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. Now touching my childhood battle scar on my chest, I shook my head, and uttered, she told me she loved me. I slid on my house shoes, stood up, and put on my black silk polo robe. I looked down at my ring finger, and the impression still haunted my memories. I was now a divorced man. I walked over to where my ring sat next to the small brown frame, which bore a gold plate, engraved affectionately with Happy 1st Father’s Day. Daddy! Love, Chloé. I picked up the picture, rubbed my thumb over the writing, and gazed at my daughter’s picture thinking to myself: What I fear the most isn’t death; it’s failing as a daddy to my daughter. My childhood was still in the back of my mind, haunting me.

Years of abuse left, me battered and bruised, both physically and emotionally. Cursed for my very presence, I spent many nights crying myself to sleep to escape the harsh reality of my everyday life … a life that was never changing. I hold my parents accountable for that, although I have learned to forgive I will never forget the pain they put my sister Eileen and me through. I don’t want everything to be like that for my daughter or any child. I’m not my mother or my father, and I never will be. I refuse to give in and not try to be the very best daddy whom I can be by staying mindful of my actions and surroundings. I don’t want to fail either. My daughter or myself as a man. After many talks with God and my dad Thomas, I have figured out that I went through trials growing up because they were important in shaping me into the man I am today. I have experienced enough to know the kind of person I wish to be remembered as. I want to be the one who will lay down the loving and nurturing foundation towards breaking the cycle of abuse. I sat the picture back down and walked down the dark hallway that led into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, I checked my heart rate, which had returned to its normal rhythm. In the stillness, I heard faint echoes of my childhood asserting themselves against the rigid walls of my adult identity. I winced as if waiting for that blindsided blow from my mother’s final hand. I shook the thought of it as I now opened the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of juice. Then poured me a glass. I leaned back against the counter and took in a deep breath. Trying to finish sorting out the real from the mental confusion. The cold juice hit the back of my throat, and quenching my thirst as I emptied it in a few gulps.

I rinsed the glass, putting it on the left side of the sink. I then headed back down the dim hallway to bed. No more would I feel the fear and the confusion of my past-life experience as a child. I slid off my robe while slipping out of my shoes and crawled into bed. It was nearly 3:33 a.m. still pitch dark outside; the bedroom finally reclaimed comforting strength. I exhaled and gave in to sleep.

The alarm rang at 5:13 a.m. and it seemed I had been asleep for only seconds instead of hours. Still, I felt refreshed, even energized. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I thought to myself; I do need to talk to someone about these childhood dreams. I walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower.

Now shaved and showered. I opened the closet and chose a black suit. The suit that I had carefully picked out with the money my dad had sent me a few weeks earlier. As I looked in the mirror at my ensemble, a conservative suit, with a crisp blue shirt and understated tie. To complete the look was my polished pair of black shoes. A picture of a man careful to remember his image and the trust people placed in him. It was part of my responsibility as a professional and as a man, to make sure that I remembered why and for what reason, I had worked very hard to get to this point in my life. As I made my way down the hallway, I was thinking to myself about those recurring dreams that played over and over in my head. I sometimes wonder what my dreams were telling me. Why do I have the same dream repeatedly? Taking one last look into the bathroom mirror, and begin my personal contemplation. It’s been an important part of my confidential personal motivation, for years. Especially, dealing with my childhood episodes. As I stared into the mirror my thoughts began to wonder; Maybe, I do have some childhood trauma? There are things, events and places that trigger my emotions and mental thoughts. Not to mention those bizarre and puzzling dreams.

I’m sure you do have trauma, Charles. How could you not?

Isn’t that the truth?! I’m glad I don’t let it control me, but I do hide my trauma for the most part.

You know as a child ‘Charlie Boy’ I mean Charles, you felt it was customary to be controlled, the beatings, slapped around and screamed at by our parents. Especially, you know whom! The battle that you continue to fight is your peculiar oppression of your thoughts and feelings. The nightmares that wake you up in the middle of the night are because you have tried your best to ignore and reject the truth. But they just seem to keep resurfacing.

Yes, I would just have to agree. I’m getting quite tired of the nightmares that’s for sure! At some point, I did something about my situation and with the help and guidance of God. I did the unthinkable.

Hey, that was a blessing because we know what the outcome could’ve been, right?

What’s that?

Well, lets just say, kill or be killed. Hell! Charles, many kids in our childhood abusive situations, would’ve done it.

What? Body tense while gripping the sink.

Hell! They would’ve tried to kill her. Are you kidding me?!

Well, we didn’t, and I’m glad that I chose not to hurt our mother.

I wish we could say the same for our mother. She did try to kill us, and there are no questions about that! Allow me to guess; this is what you thought was our protective shield. Our mother! Please! Give me a break! What I’m about to say always creeps me out. Well … here we go black eyes, bruises, lash marks, choke marks around your neck, bite marks, stab wounds, and broken bones. Shit! Charles, wake your ass up and stop dreaming. There was a deafening silence in my head.

Damn! My eyes watered up and as I saw in the mirror, looking back at me was myself. A younger battered, bruised, crying version of me and he said:

You’ve always been this abused boy in the mirror. You stood on your tiptoes gazing into the mirror that final and last night. Your reflections showed years of sadness mixed with pain anxiety, and fear. Not to mention, your swollen black and blue face, covered with blotches of blood. In the end, you did what had to be done to escape.

"It’s quite embarrassing if you want to hear the truth. No child should ever live