He sings his song
I love his song
“I love you!” I cry.
“I am not a pet,” says he,
“My song is enough.”
“Bear, did you eat the cat food again?”
From the corner of the room, the big dog peeks out from behind the old stove.
“Me? Why do you always think it’s me? Maybe the cats emptied their dish!”
“Bear, it’s licked clean.
Why are you standing in the corner, Bear?”
i cannot write fiction well. I am a person of experience. The books that flow through my mind go past my fingers and float back around my head, due to my own inopportunity to finding the facts, and the stories I need. So, I have to stick to that which I know. And the books continue to spin over my head like bees over honey.
Every now and then, I get suggestions of topics to address, from those with passions over particular issues or experiences. I cannot comment (much) on another’s experience, I am on the outside looking in, only an observer.
A writer needs inspiration, and the stories will flow, and flow nicely, rapidly, like the stream glancing over the rocks and moss, seeking its way to the larger water.
So, while I have a glass jar of topics to write, until I have the information that I need, or the inspiration to flow through my fingers, the topic remains inside the jar.
While I don’t need my dear friend, Emerson, to back me up, his Spiritual Laws has its place here.
Each man has his own vocation. The talent is the call. There is one direction in which all space is open to him. He has faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion. He is like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one; on that side all obstruction is taken away, and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the general soul incarnates itself in him. He inclines to do something which is easy to him, and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has no rival. For the more truly he consults his own powers, the more difference will his work exhibit from the work of any other. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers. The height of the pinnacle is determined by the breadth of the base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat unique, and no man has any other call. The pretence that he has another call, a summons by name and personal election and outward “signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the roll of common men,” is fanaticism, and betrays obtuseness to perceive that there is one mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein.
Baby steps. Baby steps. And I received this in an email from Cornell. Enjoy!
I thought it was very cool when I turned 57, I could be a “Heinz 57” kind of person. Of course, I decided that 6 months into it, so only could enjoy it for a little while, before mourning over turning 58.
But now I’m 59, and my birthday is the start of the new creation of me. My day started off very well, I had birthday texts, and phone calls all day. I even missed some, but there they are, recorded on my phone, and reminders that I am loved. Lunch with a good good friend, topped off by the soft warm brownie with vanilla ice cream, and the promise of more birthday fun to come, I’ve requested, for a gift, a meatloaf from my daughter in law, whose meatloaf is a preview of heaven! (Please note, you must know that this is the best meatloaf EVER, why would anyone write about meatloaf, after all!)
Anyway, May 15, 2015 was milestone for me, and a good one. And today no shadows fall upon my life.
A friend gave me a fairy garden the other day. Dirt, sticks, and a little fairy dust…I replanted a few wild flowers from my yard and have been enjoying the health.
They’re a little wilted, just potted them. Stay tuned as my garden grows!