Saturday, February 27, 2010

I write.

This is exhausting.

Have you ever had a simple conversation that ended in complexity? Last night I talked for an hour with a girl, Elana, who has been blind for 23 years. She is 23. As we talked I began to realize that she has learned how to do everything that I have learned how to do. She can walk up and down stairs, she can drink water, she can read, she can write, she plays flute and teaches private lessons. This person is just as capable as I am of living. The question that I, in my ununderstanding, had to ask was how she had learned to do these things. The ignorance of the question even now burns on my cheeks as I remember the way I asked, not intending to be stupid but stupid none the less. She responded simply. She had learned. Just as we all do, she had stumbled down stairs, spilled water, misspelled words, failed to practice, and in general messed up. But, just as we all do, she had learned.

This is exhausting.

Do you remember what it was like to learn how to hold a glass of water? No, of course not. But, I bet if you could, if we could, we would remember the frustration of not ever getting it right. We might even remember the pain of muscles learning to do what they would not do naturally. We might.

This is exhausting.

Did you ever grow ivy as a kid? Ivy is fun to grow because essentially you guide its growth. You plant the vine and then wrap the tiny shoot around what ever it’s to grow to and continue the process for a few weeks. Eventually, the small shoot gets it in it’s …. head (?) that whatever it is now growing around is what will hold it up. It begins to climb in whatever shape the anchor is. However, those first few weeks are hard. That shoot must be wrapped daily around what it is growing to.

This is exhausting.

Did your unswimming self ever jump into the deep end?
Did you ride first without training wheels?
Did you play for hours without calluses?
Did you truly pray without believing?
Did you love without knowing?

This is exhausting.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Practice.

Writing to write.
I have discovered that when
push comes to shove
and all I can NOT do is pick up a pen and put words to paper, it is time to try to write.

I am not a writer by trade or by hobby or by ability. I am not Laura Grafham or Davey or Mig or Coriz or Molly Murphy or Nate Knapp or Christo or any other of my countless friends who call themselves writers to one extent or another. This 'writing process' is a foreign one to me. When poesy makes it's way into my head it is a poesy of unknowing. A muse of a moment that comes and hits and leaves me wondering when she will next come.

I'm not sure what the value of writing is. Nor am I certain that this practice is essential to my life. As I said, I am not a writer by trade. However, I am willing to try, for a time, to become a writer by practice. Who knows, it might be important.