On Writing.

Words, music, --- music, words. Emotions, feelings, thoughts and ideas. These I think are the things that have moved the course of time in the world of men. Even in the natural world, there is a soundless river of music that wends its way through the forest glen, across the mountain top, along the banks of the river. To listen to a piece of music whether it be a young persons rap, an old persons rock, or the quiet plaintive strains of a a sweetly played violin in a classical piece, is cause to move a persons heart and activate their soul just as deeply as looking out over the beautiful valley or gazing up at the majesty of the rugged mountain peak. They each conspire to elicit that moment of awe, that "aha" sigh that comes when we sink into the sounds that swirl around the listener or lay eyes upon the worlds beauty.

And when words are put on paper, they have incredible power too. In the arena of politics, they shape societies, build up or all too often destroy lives. The words inside a card, quickly written, convey a sense of togetherness from one person to another. Or they can paint a picture fraught with beauty and delicacy, powerful in its ability to move the reader and inspire to greater acts of heroism than they had ever dreamed possible, or simply to revel in a new emotion. I have at times thought I would like to be a writer. To be the person who touches the hearts of others, brings to life new worlds, new experiences. When I was young I escaped into my books, reading voraciously, everything that I could get my hands on. I can remember walking to school, with my newest treasure balanced on the top of the pile, reading and only aware of the traffic around as was necessary to avoid being hit by a car as I crossed the streets.

But then my children came, and out of necessity, I put down my other worlds, my books. A novel needs to be savoured and experienced and these things are hard to do when the act of sitting down is a signal to small children to climb up on mommy and use her for a jungle gym to relieve their boredom. So the books were laid aside and little hands were clasped instead.

But now the children are grown and living lives of their own and perhaps in these new, quieter years of my life, I will pick up where I left off. Life is just a series of cycles and phases, taken up and put away. All I need is to find my reading glasses and maybe the next phase will indeed be a continuation of the first. As for writing, well, I don't think that is something that will happen save for the occasional letter to someone I love but I find that more often these days, the words that came to mind so easily, are getting stopped at the border as it were, and try as I might, they can't cross over and I am forced to settle for another, possibly with less impact than the one that is just there at the tip of my brain. So writing, probably not, reading quite likely.