Sometimes when I want to read, I can't. I fill with distaste and disdain for each book I pick up, because none of it is Maya Angelou, or Toni Morrison, or the literary meal I need to sate my soul's craving for meaning and a cosmic guide for that moment in life. The problem with the book I’m reading isn’t the story. It’s the problem of my living. The rote nature of it. The sentences– simple declaratives, the tasks –things that get struck from a list, done and redone. Remember? See it? Done. Life. Life is not merely written down like any other list of things not to be forgotten, but witnessed so never forgotten even after memory failed to hit record, because a day was witnessed at its onset is the answer. It’s the lack of feeling mornings, not the story of what happened. The lack of witnessing. Mornings, that time of awakening at t he birth of the world watch an egret’s legs in water, slender limbs glistening beneath a cool tide pool surface barely moved in the stillness of a d
I ski, teach, parent, write, read, swim, adventure. I get lost in my own mind, chewing on words and images. Sometimes something good comes out.