Life for me (for us) has been tossed in a blender. Right now it is switched on hi. If I wasn’t so afraid of boredom and lack of purpose I’d probably jump out of the jar and head for the couch. If I wasn’t so concerned about time running out I’d probably stop the quest to move forward. If I didn’t have a wake-up call in March I’d be going along as if I didn’t have a f-en care in the world. But that smack in the face by the reality of motility still raises a welt from time to time.
So I ask myself:
I’ll tell you why.
I am not proclaiming a competition among art forms. I paint and have won first place ribbons. I play the piano and have written music for a band and have basked in applause.
For me the last thirty-plus years of writing has been the most meaningful. Published hundreds of times as an essayist, op-ed writer, and columnist has taught me the power, the joy and the responsibility we must realize as writers. And I have come to know how much I still have to learn.
That’s why I continue to write, dream and try to tell my story.
I am a book.
So are you.
Sometimes the pages are flipped fast and sometimes they turn slowly. I’m not ready to shelf my book of efforts and dreams. I’m not willing to give up.
My latest project?
It is about that one thing families always hold close until the very end, secrets. Not the nasty ones. Not the controversial. This multi-generational story is about that one thing we hold so dear, survival of the spirit when the last wisp of hope departs.
This project has taught me that sometimes hope hides just beyond the tree line. A walk in the woods, taking an old path, creating a new one is what sustains my effort to make it to the place I never knew existed.
Come on. Wear comfortable shoes and walk with me. Discovery resides where we have never been.