Some days, words come easy - a beautiful sunset, the boats of geese on still water in twilight, the smell of amber from the remnants of the barn that burned a week ago in the blazing June heat - and they pour, magnificent, superfluous, barely ordered, tangled and unprocessed, like the overflowing awe that inspires them.
Most days though, I'm running too fast for awe to catch up. I am running from myself, towards the brilliance of busy breathless bustle of activity. No wonder there are no words. I don't give them a chance to lose the volatility of their birth in my mind, not to speak of letting my mouth caress them into form. Attention requires stillness. Life requires stillness.
But stillness fosters thought, which inevitably results in truth, and truth is a thrashing burbling spring with a voice of a child, sneaking into my lungs: "am I happy?"
I haven't yet learned to lie to children.
One of my goals in life: to never be down enough to witness beauty and not be lifted by it.
Another: to be able to take an instant, a point in my awareness (imagine, sound, smell, emotion), zoom into it until it fills my definition of self, zoom out until I explode with it into its interaction with the rest of the world. To be myself enough to have such moments even in public.
My goal in writing is to convey the magnificence of my experience, the enormousness of the little details, the exhilarating rush of doing absolutely nothing or everything and comprehending that you're alive to participate in all THIS.
When I remind myself that writing is as simple and being observant enough and appreciative enough, it isn't so difficult after all. Perhaps lacking a purpose, an audience, or the ambition that typically encourages a writer to touch others - but who cares? After all, there's me, there's the world, and I can do whatever I want.
Especially to a good instrumental soundtrack.
A couple of days ago, I spent a couple of hours in a local garden. It is gorgeous there, featuring my favorite types of trees - twisty branches, dome like crowns, leaves weeping in a patchy curtains.... Perfection. Anyhow - the garden is exceptionally well kept - clean sidewalks, mowed lawns (more like, hills); and open to respectable public, walking hand in hand, with strollers, curiously bending down over plants with arms thoughtfully behind their backs.
I was dying to lie down on the grass under some enormous trunk, spread myself into a star, seep in my surroundings until it was too much...
I managed to talk myself into sitting down on the grass, with my legs to my chest and crossed, arms holding the knees in. Pathetic. I even tried convincing myself that, come on, lions lie on the grass, I'm an animal, I can too!
Didn't work.
Propriety is for sissies. How ironic that my mother spent years, blood and sweat to train me into sitting nicely on a chair, with legs one next to each other, or crosses over, at best! Not to sit on the floor, not to put feet on coffee tables, not to dance or sing in public... How dutifully I am spending the independence of my adulthood undoing her lessons.
Most days though, I'm running too fast for awe to catch up. I am running from myself, towards the brilliance of busy breathless bustle of activity. No wonder there are no words. I don't give them a chance to lose the volatility of their birth in my mind, not to speak of letting my mouth caress them into form. Attention requires stillness. Life requires stillness.
But stillness fosters thought, which inevitably results in truth, and truth is a thrashing burbling spring with a voice of a child, sneaking into my lungs: "am I happy?"
I haven't yet learned to lie to children.
One of my goals in life: to never be down enough to witness beauty and not be lifted by it.
Another: to be able to take an instant, a point in my awareness (imagine, sound, smell, emotion), zoom into it until it fills my definition of self, zoom out until I explode with it into its interaction with the rest of the world. To be myself enough to have such moments even in public.
My goal in writing is to convey the magnificence of my experience, the enormousness of the little details, the exhilarating rush of doing absolutely nothing or everything and comprehending that you're alive to participate in all THIS.
When I remind myself that writing is as simple and being observant enough and appreciative enough, it isn't so difficult after all. Perhaps lacking a purpose, an audience, or the ambition that typically encourages a writer to touch others - but who cares? After all, there's me, there's the world, and I can do whatever I want.
Especially to a good instrumental soundtrack.
A couple of days ago, I spent a couple of hours in a local garden. It is gorgeous there, featuring my favorite types of trees - twisty branches, dome like crowns, leaves weeping in a patchy curtains.... Perfection. Anyhow - the garden is exceptionally well kept - clean sidewalks, mowed lawns (more like, hills); and open to respectable public, walking hand in hand, with strollers, curiously bending down over plants with arms thoughtfully behind their backs.
I was dying to lie down on the grass under some enormous trunk, spread myself into a star, seep in my surroundings until it was too much...
I managed to talk myself into sitting down on the grass, with my legs to my chest and crossed, arms holding the knees in. Pathetic. I even tried convincing myself that, come on, lions lie on the grass, I'm an animal, I can too!
Didn't work.
Propriety is for sissies. How ironic that my mother spent years, blood and sweat to train me into sitting nicely on a chair, with legs one next to each other, or crosses over, at best! Not to sit on the floor, not to put feet on coffee tables, not to dance or sing in public... How dutifully I am spending the independence of my adulthood undoing her lessons.
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