As I settle in to write this post, everything feels a bit topsy-turvy and upside down because I have to drag myself out of a routine that has become an everyday habit: writing a book (possibly). The very reason I found myself in Duncan again about two weeks after my last visit was due to my desire to go deeper into the wordsmithing, and so if I’ve been occupied by putting the proverbial pen to paper, why should writing this particular update be a slightly intrusive chore? Because it’s not what I’m used to writing.
That other side of my writing, the side readers of my blog cannot currently see, has been a flow of inspiration running through me and into a document that grows longer with meandering curves and movements that remain in the draft stage.
Consider a brand-new pair of handcrafted socks, one cannot wear them before the last stitch has been added. The same goes for what I’m working on, as nobody knows if I’ll reach the end. Also, when Caroline knitted these new socks over the previous weeks, all she could do was add one stitch at a time. I’m adding one letter, one word, one sentence at a time.
Unlike in face-to-face conversations, nothing in writing is conveyed in real time. There is always a lag, and so it is also true of this post that is taking shape in mid-March, only to be posted in February. The post had to wait, as at the forefront of my intention, I’ve been dumping almost every bit of myself into determining if I possess the wherewithal to accomplish such a lofty task as writing something longer than I’ve attempted to date. From my perspective here in the future, I can assure you that I’ve eclipsed my previous efforts and that momentum is carrying the story further down the proverbial page, at least as of this moment.
The snow-capped mountain in the distance is Mt. Graham, where Caroline and I visited the telescopes perched up top. On this trip to Duncan, I am traveling solo, which helps me focus every effort on my task at hand, but there’s only so far I can go in my head before I need to get out and stretch my eyes beyond the screen. It’s a rare day when out walking, talking to my muse, that I don’t leave with something, and today I had to stop along the way on my walk into New Mexico and take note of the Japanese concept of “Forest Bathing,” a.k.a., Shinrin’yoku that would become “Desert Bathing,” or Sabaku’yoku in the larger body of text I toil with on a daily basis.
Metaphors appear in everything: through a small break in a window, I peered into an old garage, spotting some classic cars, with one looking magnificent in the shadowy light of morning. I must do the same thing with my mind, which arrives with no small amount of anxiety rushing toward me. Who really knows how full the garage of their imagination is and if what’s in it has value or if it’s crammed floor to ceiling with useless junk? At a point in my writing, I may have to reconcile the wisdom found in the idiom, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” and hope that my treasure might have value beyond trash for others.
