I saw what skill was needed, and persistence — how one must bend one’s spine, like a hoop, over the page — the long labor. I saw the difference between doing nothing, or doing a little, and the redemptive act of true effort. Reading, then writing, then desiring to write well, shaped in me that most joyful of circumstances — a passion for work.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Thursday, September 1, 2016
I come down from the mountains, The valley dims, the sea roars. I wander silently and am somewhat unhappy, And my sighs always ask "Where?" The sun seems so cold to me here, The flowers faded, the life old, And what they say has an empty sound; I am a stranger everywhere. Where are you, my dear land? Sought and brought to mind, yet never known, That land, so hopefully green, That land, where my roses bloom, Where my friends wander Where my dead ones rise from the dead, That land where they speak my language, Oh land, where are you? I wander silently and am somewhat unhappy, And my sighs always ask "Where?" In a ghostly breath it calls back to me, "There, where you are not, there is your happiness."