Writing is proving to be a difficult exercise for me, but a worthy one, I believe. Many years past my school days, my writing has become undisciplined and/or formulaic. (For years, my primary writing was in the form of business letters - eegk! Little room for creativity but it does force one to condense the message into a very concise format) Writing demands of one to crystallize ideas and thoughts into a cogent form - it's an organizing technique. For me, it seems also a good way to compare my "compass" (where I'm wanting to go, the purpose of my life) with what's actually going on inside. And....perhaps.....the most important aspect of writing is that it directs thoughts towards an attitude of service! I could spend all day contemplating, by myself, wondrous ideas, impressions, and inspirations. When I begin to write and share these "wondrous ideas and impressions" (grin), I become then aware of an "audience" - these ideas or impressions are directed to their benefit, their entertainment, their interests, and I attempt to winnow out the trivial, useless and/or trite (not to mention the harmful)......in other words, create something of value!!

A means to direct the mind ....hmmmmmmm.....

Yes, this is kind of like preaching to the choir, not news for anyone, likely, other than me. another silly indulgence?

Well, it's a practice. I'm far from the goal, for sure.

and now, a favorite poem, by a favorite author........

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The Swan

This clumsy living that moves lumbering
as if in ropes through what is not done
reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks.

And to die, which is a letting go
of the ground we stand on and cling to every day,
is like the swan when he nervously lets himself down

into the water, which receives him gaily
and which flows joyfully under
and after him, wave after wave,
while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm,
is pleased to be carried, each minute more fully grown,
more like a king, composed, farther and farther on.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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and another....

Moving Forward

The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
that I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
and in the ponds broken off from the sky
my feeling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Rainer Maria Rilke


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