Wednesday, January 30, 2013
When I was younger and raising my children,I had the sense that I was skimming through life.Reading quickly,running here and there,half listening to others because I had "things to do".
I was unsettled by the feeling.What really mattered ,as I thrashed around like a balloon with its helium escaping.
Then I started running.How I fit it in,I'll never know but it was just what I needed.A mindless activity whose time and length of doing depended only on my goal for the day.And this is the strange part,the streets and paths that I ran on became more to me than asphalt and dirt.I owned these precious paths in an inexplicable way.I had paid for them with my effort.
Writing is the same phenomena in my view.When I take the time to look, really wander around an object or a place for what story it wants told,like the Pict cross ,and a scene flows from outside of me onto a page,I own that object,that place.It is mine.We are deeply connected.
I never know what it will be that calls to be part of me.How could I know that a Pict cross on a church wall in Aberdeen Scotland would introduce me to its carver.Or a mottled cow would bring tears to my eyes.That when I would write about one of my children, not only would tears flow,but my love deepen.
There is a downed tree by the river that held my tired body one afternoon last year.It is clean and grey with interesting holes here and there.I sat with my journal and just "was".Within fifteen minutes,my pen was dashing across the page with praise for the beauty of this neglected bank of the Flint.That tree is now my most favorite writing bench.
Would love be too strong a word ?I think not.I love the Pict cross,cow,children,downed tree ,fluffy grey cat ,Jonesboro streets,and all the wonders put at my feet,deeply.