All around us there are the sounds of construction. Hammers pounding away as workers put down shingles on a new roof, the beep-beep of construction trucks backing up to unload all that goes into building a house, pipes and frames and HVAC equipment, while in the almost completed homes the sounds of saws buzzing away, windows being put in and in some cases the finishing touches. Across from us are several large digs, the soil that once covered the land now in piles along the huge hole, where some have had cement poured into what will soon become the base frame. It’s a busy place, from early morning till late afternoon, the workers trudge to and fro doing their assigned jobs so that one day someone will be able to have a new home. We moved into our house a month and a half ago, brand new with more room than we ever had before. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a full, albeit, unfinished basement. Our master bedroom has this nice space, the one I’m writing in right now, an extra little sitting area where I can retreat to and allow my thoughts to flow. We have a sunroom, that will be nice once the cold winds of winter arrive and we will no longer be able to sit on the deck, then there’s that, a deck. The deck is positioned perfectly, in the late afternoon with the sun setting into the west, the deck is shaded and pleasant to sit out on while in the morning with the sun rising in the east, our porch is the one shaded, there we can enjoy our morning cup of coffee. Yes, we do have a porch, I know isn’t that awesome but we’ve never had one before. Walk-in closets, a first floor laundry room, a full two car garage although we only have one car. I was thinking, if I could only have had this back up in Massachusetts I may not have moved, but we didn’t and in fact to have a house with all of this would have cost us way more than what we are making and so, here we are living in Smyrna Delaware. It’s really not so bad although we do miss a few things like decent shopping stores like Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s and Wegman’s, and we definitely miss fresh, Atlantic fish, Cod, Haddock and the occasional Swordfish, all of which are hard to come by down here. There is also, how do I put this, slowness to this part of the state, a slowness in everything that is done. To drive means being behind a slower driver who may or may not signal his/her intentions. In the grocery stores you encounter them in the aisles, browsing ever so slowly, examining each package before putting it in their cart or putting it back on the shelf. Now, with so many retiring here one would think, “hey, they are old and old folks are slow,” but surprise, even the young folks are slow if not slower. There are times when I feel that I am in a tortoise vs. hare race and I’m the hare, just trying to get what I need, then get out of the store. Okay, I know I sound frustrated, but that is the way with those of us who grew up in more metropolitan areas. Growing up with traffic, with noise with the congestion that comes with it, is the cross I bear as I try to get used to this slower, measured pace. Maybe there is a lesson, one that I need to learn as a budding writer, slow down, take your time, allow your mind to wander and just write. Write with no agenda, write with no end point or even a well developed theme, just write. Maybe later, maybe in what I’ve just written there is something that will take root and grow into an essay or a story or even a poem. Sometimes I feel that I’m trying to hard to catch up and that is actually holding me back from just writing. I want the words to be perfect, I want what I say to mean something, not just to me but to someone who is reading this, now, yes you, the occasional blog browser who does a daily random search and lands on my piece to read. Maybe it’s shit, maybe it’s okay, but maybe it offers something beyond the words, hope. That if you to are a beginning writer, an older writer who feels that life and opportunity have left you behind, then maybe this missive will give you some hope and courage to write anyway. I am far from perfect, my grammar sucks, if it weren’t for spell check then I would be doomed but still I write, my imagination isn’t dead. As I look out at those workers, as they go about building these homes I am reminded that even the best of them had to learn their trade, they had to make mistakes and try again, but that is the way of life. As writers, and yes I’m addressing all of you who blog, write poetry, essay’s, fiction, nonfiction whatever, just keep at it, make mistakes, but keep at it because now more than ever we need more writers, we need deep thinkers who are willing to go into those places where few dare to tread, to mine for words of healing, words of substance. So, what are you waiting for, write.
In the past few weeks my life has changed. First, I retired, second, I’ve moved. Now I’m trying to figure out what shape my life will take, so I offer this small piece of reflection. It’s not perfect, nor is it finished but it is where I am at the moment.
July 11, 2018
Thanks, once again to Parker Palmer I have another mystery to unravel in my attempt at the writers life. Here he quotes Henry David Thoreau:
My life has been the poem I would have writ
But I could not both live and utter it
Now what do I do with that? What is the poem I would have writ had I the time to writ what it is that needed to be writ? For me this is the struggle, to find something that grabs at me instead of these various, meteoric thoughts that fly by quickly only too burn up in the atmosphere of my thoughts. I write, to put it mildly, trash even as I long to make sense of where I am in this world. Being deeply troubled by what I read and see, how does my small voice fit in the the greater narrative? Palmer seems to have found his voice, a voice that has been honed and worked on and re-honed to what it is today. Richard Rohr, (another spiritual author I need to read) writing about Palmer and his new book writes that “Our entire culture is in need of true elders, and you can’t be one until you have arrived there — chronologically, spiritually, and intellectually. Here’s a man who has arrived, with another book that’s a generous gift to all of us.” I am far from being anywhere near from being a true elder. I might be there chronologically, but the other two criteria are woefully deficient and need a good boost, a shot of spiritual and intellectual energy. I’m not too old to not have the desire to continue in my quest and even as the days grow shorter, I don’t feel desperate or anxious to get to that mythical somewhere. Maybe, for me, the struggle is the vocation, the purpose of my writing. The honest struggle of not paying enough attention when I was younger and now finding myself in the slow lane trying to catch-up. Now I’m back to the question, what is the poem I would have writ? What are the paradoxes that surround my life and where do they fit in with what I am trying to be as a writer, as a priest, now retired from the dailyness of being out there, yet still craving that need for contact? Now that’s a paradox, a both/and that will keep any shrink in business if one ever dares to try an unravel my inner workings. Today was a day of thoughts, not really journal material, or is it? After all what is a journal other than a place to vomit the crap that is floating on the interior and exposing it all to the light of day. It ain’t pretty and sometimes it smells, but that is the only way to come to understand who I am at this time in my life. I think that the only person that really gets me is Jane, the poor girl has had to deal with my ups and downs for the past 45 years and now she’s stuck with me on a daily basis as we negotiate being retired together.