Dear Mary Angel

I've heard it said that being a writer involves writing on a daily basis, of carrying with you a notebook to, at the very least, write down your thoughts and ideas. That in so doing some ideas may evolve into fully developed expressions. I don't know that doing this will in any way make one a better writer, but I do think it gets one in the habit of writing. For me, writing every day is unrealistic. Some days I just can't find a moment to string a few sentences together, and other days I just don't want to pick up a pen. Being a writer, to me, simply means someone who writes because its like breathing, that the thought of not writing means losing everything. I find a sense of accomplishment in writing, in it's practice. So I try. Not every day, but I do try. And I take a notebook with me everywhere. Some days nothing gets written, but its there for me... waiting.

Some days I struggle to form an idea, it fights my every effort, playing hard to get. And when, on those days, I finish, I can see clearly the struggle we fought. It seems to laugh at me, congratulating itself for thwarting me. Then there are the times, and few they be, when it lies down, legs spread, open and waiting-- a thing of beauty --allowing to trace its every curve. That was how it was with Capulet... what a beautiful poem/song it is.

Other times I'm lucky to even feel inspired enough to write (my muse, oddly enough looks a great deal like you. And yet, having said that, I realize just how much of you I've lost; I can't remember your face; I haven't a picture of you anywhere, and there's no remedy for that), stress is the killer here. My personal life is teeming with stress-- mostly of the emotional sort. Other times it's more specific: a fight with my wife, her talking divorce, and her not realizing what that does to me on the inside.

Some days vision is the hindrance. When I have these days... like today... I feel very vulnerable and depressed. Sometimes she'll make noise about how we'd be better off apart, on our own. That's when fear sets in. I know she and I have difficulty communicating, in point of fact we communicate very poorly. Rare is the occasion we actually succeed. So she thinks this is reason to separate, and I can't fault her in that. But this is where the fear comes from: I've put twenty-eight years into our relationship, the last three as a married couple, and now, in all likelihood, I will be blind in under five years. I wonder how I should survive without her. We do communicate, but we do not understand one another. I think I understand her more than she does me, but I suspect any couple would feel the same about their partners.

She doesn't read anything I write. I tried to share a poem with her above twenty years ago, and she read but a few lines before flinging the page back saying, in effect, "this makes no sense... it's stupid." She may not have actually said those last two words, but it's what I heard. I haven't shared anything with her since. I haven't hid my writing form her, but I've not invited her to read my work. To the best of my knowledge she hasn't tried to read anything I've written since then. She has no interest in me as a writer, and my other talents make no sense to her either, though she does see their value, and that purely monetary. All that being said, writing is who, and what I am. She doesn't care to read my work, which means, she doesn't care about reading me, but she does care if I can make money doing it.

In essence, I have no one to talk with but this blog, my notebook, and the many notebooks to come. And that's cold comfort... they can't hold me, comfort me, keep me warm in bed. It is emptiness. Sometimes, when I let it, it's despair. But not today. today is a good day. It's January 31st and it's warm and sunny. I still have to get six inches from the monitor to write this, with my reading glasses on (I get prescription glasses in three weeks, Yay!), and it's taken the better part of two hours to transcribe this letter, but I'm happy... if not about where I am, then about where I'm going.

My wish for you is continued prosperity: in health, in the blessings of your family, but most importantly your walk with God. May he richly bless you and keep you safe and warm.

As always, all my love


E

Dear Mary Angel,

Happy New Year,
   
      A lot has happened in the past year, most of them realizations I've made; not things you can hold in your hand, but nonetheless significant in terms of what I've managed to accomplish. For one, I've discovered who I am. This may sound crazy-- fifty-five years old and finally understanding this basic truism, but...

     Most everyone tends to identify themselves with their job-title, "I'm a doctor, I'm a janitor," and that's fine if that's all they aspire to be. If the purpose of their lives-- the great driving force and motivation, was to become a janitor? Okay. But I believe very few people, if they were honest with themselves, sees their occupation as the great driving force of their lives; their reason to be.

     Take me, for instance. I've been a cook, a dishwasher, an X-ray supply tech. I've worked on the crew boats off the Texas and Louisiana coasts, I've strung cable for a cable company in Arkansas, I've managed a restaurant, I've produced the five, six, and ten o'clock news at a local station, I've worked on the web, built advertising, edited and made commercials. I've managed to squeeze in a lot of  jobs in thirty-nine years, and yet, not a single one of them told the story of WHO I was at any given time. Who I am is a much larger story. It has taken the whole of my life tell. And it is not defined by any time-clock I've ever punched.

     I am an Artist, broadly speaking, but more specifically, a writer, and a poet. Whether or not I ever earn a living as a poet and writer is irrelevant, because these are the driving forces that propel me forward. They are my reasons to be. These are the gifts God has given me; my talents. And I dare not bury them in the sand.

     I believe that if everyone in the world were allowed and encouraged to nurture and grow that seed of "Being" within them, this would be a much calmer, more peaceful planet. Within everyone is a desire to create. We can't but help desire the art of creation; this desire was forged into every cell of our bodies from conception. This is the closest we get to being like Him, in this life.

     I wish you all the best in this coming year. I wish you peace, love, and a greater, deeper longing for the You God created you to be.

All my love


E