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FROM WHENCE THE WRITER?
Some time ago, one of the editors from Bonfire asked me this question. This is my attempt to answer it.
I wonder so much and know so little, compared to some who wonder not, yet deem themselves all knowing.
I look to books for definitions:
Philosophy... Love of Wisdom, one dictionary's definition
Wisdom... Understanding what you know.
Writing... A desire to and means of sharing a part of yourself.
Well that's some help but not completely satisfying. The accumulation of knowledge has been a lifelong priority, driven by a curiosity about everything. But after knowing why something exists or how it functions, the curiosity is satiated and the urge to move on to something new, different, unknown becomes an imperative. The residue of this quest loiters in the unconscious.
My difficulty in writing is in dredging a valued object from a reservoir filled with incoherent curiosities.
I try for one good thought each day and mostly fail.
A coherent sentence that captures the essence of a thought is cause for celebration.
To compose a paragraph becomes a sometimes daunting consideration.
But those are the negatives that haunt my desire...
Perhaps, it is in conversation I feel most comfortable. Then, my style of writing must be to converse — with real or imagined characters that move me to record some time or thought.
Along these lines, allow me to share a meeting:
I wandered an aimless shore,
as waves of inconsequence
consumed my days.
Upon this improbable time
there happened a man.
Through hands veined like marble
and fingers worn smooth,
he sifted sand,
caressing each grain
as if to capture its origin.
At times he would linger
on a faceted quartz
and peer into the crystal
like a seer willing a universe to open.
I approached and inquired,
"What do you seek, old man?"
Without a glance, he replied,
"A reflection...
Of a simpler time,
an innocent age,
where being was noble
and doing was to be."
Puzzled, I asked,
"But why, aren't we better off now?"
He looked at me, and said with deep sadness,
"More has been lost than gained..."
Saying this, he threw the crystal into the surf.
"Go, find the ripples,
they are there to eternity,
but cannot be seen for the
turmoil about them.
So it has become for you."
He picked up a handful of sand,
let it flow through his fingers.
"Your instincts are sound...
In children, I have seen unbounded joy,
then you grow to deny that magic.
You claim to be caretakers of your domain...
But, like fox given run of the coop,
your actions decry this perception.
Your choice of excess has sown destruction...
Witness decaying scars across the land
Yet you do not consider this a disorder.
Your religions preach being one with the whole...
But outside the temple, you pray in exclusion
then revel this hypocrisy.
Your generations barely speak to each other...
Engaged In some detrimental competition,
you diminish the reservoir of wisdom.
Truly, you are a species wrapped in confusion."
As the last grain left his hand, he looked about him,
"Your actions resound beyond perception.
I cannot but wonder,
how long Nature will suffer the fool."
Somewhat defensively, I replied,
"And I can only wonder,
is there nothing redeeming about us?"
A small smile crossed his face,
"Oh yes, hope exists...
Look to the arts,
Your splendor in colors on canvas,
beauty impressed in clay,
perfection freed from a prison of stone,
grace in expressions on page.
This one conservatory
for the good there is
and greatness that can be.
For you are but young gods,
not yet aware your ability...
When you touch that potential,
a brilliance occurs, rivaling any sun.
When gaze leaves self,
horizons become infinite.
When you love without condition,
you embrace magnificence."
For a time, we looked at each other...
Perceiving more in silence than could be said,
I turned away from this man
with his extraordinary quest.
For mine had begun.
So, dear friends, I continue to pursue an awareness of our nature from both a personal and universal aspect. And will continue try to document, in an interesting way, whatever I find…
© Ed Petrick
Bonfire contributor
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