“Living has yet to be generally recognized as one of the arts.” ~Karl De Schweinitz
I don’t think I’m a writer any more.
When I feel sad or ponderous or have that one moment of ridiculous clarity, I don’t scamper helter-skelter for the computer like I once did. I don’t leave dinner to burn on the stove or fly from the folding. The sudden impulsiveness that used to propel me toward the making of beautiful things has left me as impulsively as it came.
Sunsets still charm my socks off. And I still spend a good portion of my day in quiet contemplation. The taste of life still whets my appetite and lingers on my lips and always leaves me hungry for more. Wonder is still as likely a companion as sorrow. And I still love to dangle my toes in the mysteries of existence. Of sun and rain taking turn on center stage. Of joy and pain doing the same. How one is without glory except for the other.
What I’m saying, I guess, is that there is peace around and peace above and peace within. I’m not angry or bitter at the craft in any way. But it has lost something for me. I can’t seem to make my heart beat faster at the idea of turning a phrase like nobody’s business or at the attempt to wax poetic and profound.« Continue »