In two months I will turn 43 years old. I know this is supposed to horrify or depress me, but I am actually pretty excited.
It's not because there is any age barrier I am breaking through: no 43 year bat mitzvah, change of life birth, early retirement. Come to think of it, there is no breaking through anything at 43. It's more like squishing into a new season with all privileges and abilities in hand.
|This pronunication site is addictive and hilarious. Image courtesy of: http://1080.plus/How_to_Pronounce_Squish_by_Dictionary_Voice/lhsRe09_whk.video|
I have long held my driver's license. I know how to ride a bike. I'm baptized, confirmed, married, and have birthed two children. I have a few best friends I can count on: like cream they rose to the top of my cup o' blessing. My immediate family of three is so close to me they almost bear no mention--it would be like speaking of my right leg. But, give tribute I must! For, if it weren't for their sweet devotion and support who knows if I would have made it to my next birthday.
I don't know if I have succeeded in my life or not. I've completed some arbitrary wonderful ideas on a page of miracles to try for-- and that alone might merit a self-congratulatory pat. Creativity has waxed and waned- and by that I don't even know what I mean. I guess I feel a little worry that I have become quite ordinary, and thus, boring- in my own estimation. Not to pretend that I was ever superior to the mainstream- or to imply that I was or am in any way extraordinary- I am not.
But I do desire to break free from the belief (fair warning...I'm about to lay down some crappy carpy? metaphors) that my thoughts, my thoughts which are quicksilver and molten gold and smelly giant carp at the bottom of a murky lake can be caught, channeled, shaped and cooled into something useful. In other words, I AM STILL WRITING.
Is there anything, any skill more useless than writing? It is in fact an ordinary miracle formed of infinite experiences and thoughts which in themselves are little more than sand on a beach.
But some sand, when collected and catalyzed can be heated in the fire and melted to hold the breath of the Blower, then spun and lengthened and tempered and cooled to reveal this:
|A Dale Chihuly original...|
a thousand sandy thoughts
two thousand years, minerals in a cliff
two thousand degrees of heat
and a hundred degrees of pressure
caught in a fragile, clear, good-for-nothing but appreciation of form vessel
temporary and permanent
capricious and grounded
meaningless but for its beauty formed in fire. 43 and writing. Go figure.
Oh, yes. We attended a glass-blowing exhibit on vacation. The first thing you make at a glass-blowing workshop by the way, is a paperweight. Paperweights are very useful. But compare a paperweight to the glass sculpture on the right, and which takes your breath away?
Catch my drift? Writing may not be always be useful for anything more than trying to capture what cannot be expressed. But, even if I only manage to capture the attempt, I might be worth my weight in sand. Metaphor away, friends. Metaphor away.
Next up from the Radical Middle: 1,000 poems in 40 days