Logos: The Power of Words to Bring the Past Back to Life

Yes, this is about words again, or rather, about the power they possess to, not only make something seem real to us again, but also elicit a reaction to past experiences that we'd forgotten, almost as though they were all happening again for the first time. Words give birth to more words until there are enough of them to propel us back to another time, another place, complete with all our reactions to whatever events transpired back then.

It's not that I ever forgot this experience. But I did, however, forget how that event, which lasted several years, had made me feel at the time. 

It all started with a single entry in a journal that I started and kept more than 20 years ago. Within the pages of all the subsequent entries, I was taken back through that experience, complete with all the sensations and sentiments it elicited from me at the time. I'm led to believe that remnants of emotions stay with us much like the information stays on a computer hard drive forever, until that drive is wiped clean. Only in the event of severe mental or emotional trauma can they be wiped clean from our memory banks, and even then, I believe the human mind possesses the ability to store vast and infinite amounts of sensory perceptions and reactionary emotions in us forever. Where it all goes after we die is anyone's guess. 

The word Logos is simply defined as a statement of fact used to prove a point or support an argument or opinion. It has different uses in different aspects of the human experience, from religion to politics to literature and philosophy. As we string words together with the intent of illustrating something or pointing out its authenticity, the words themselves can take on a life of their own. And in the case of the aforementioned journal entries, the logos brought the entire sequence of events to life for me again, complete with how they had made me feel at the time. I knew it was possible to go back and reread old diary or journal entries. But until the moment I finished reading those, I'd never realized just how capable those handwritten words still were of making me relive the entire experience, all twenty-plus years of it.

The gist of the story isn't what's important here. What matters is that now, I know that if I ever need to travel back there and relive what were some of the most confusing and heart-wrenching, yet some of the most exciting, times of my life, I can do it again as often as I want. I will even go so far as to say that I doubt they'll even lose their ability  to recreate all those old emotions in me, too. And somehow, reading the entries slowly and out loud only adds to their realness, as if my giving voice to them imbues them with even more life and an energy that had been confined in the pages of that journal for years and that I finally set free.

It was an awesome moment, bittersweet yet enlightening, when I felt myself being pulled back into those ancient heartaches and joys, thrills and disappointments, the kind that I never thought I'd experience again. Because, you see, there is absolutely no chance now that any of those things of which I kept track could or would ever happen to me again. My life has changed too much, and certain important characters in the narrative are no longer part of my world for whatever reason. 

It is an awesome thing when you realize something this profound. Merely reading accounts of events that happened more than 20 years ago had the power to bring every single detail and my reactions to those details back to life, but not outside of me. I felt every single shred of what I'd felt then...unutterable joy, crushing sadness, confusion, thrill, doubt, excitement, and anticipation. I'd forgotten how much detail I'd gone into in the writing of those entries, and it's easy to see how just the right amount of explication can mark the difference between good and evocative writing and prose that falls flat and takes the reader nowhere. 

These journal accounts might not elicit the same response in someone who didn't experience what I did. But then again, if the details brought it all back to a larger than life dimension for me, then it might have the same effect on a more objective reader. 

That's neither here nor there, for most people don't write journals for the purpose of letting someone else read them someday. We write them for our own use, our own comfort, as the very act of putting down the details of such experiences is a balm in itself. And if, by chance, someone else does read them someday, then they'll develop a new understanding of their authors that no direct interaction could have produced. 

From a literary perspective, there are three ways in which to approach any topic: ethos, pathos, and logos. Ethos is based on the speaker's or writer's authority to convincingly expound on the topic; pathos takes the form of wordage intended to elicit emotion; and logos is a form of explication that proves a point. In my case, pathos comes into play a great deal, because compelling me to experience all those old emotions again was the direct result of reading those old journal entries.

So there it is, that old hard-cover notebook with the paisley design and a long narrow blue ribbon marking the place where I stopped in my second reading of those entries. I left it on the sofa next to other reading material, because I have a habit, which is more of a routine really, of reading a little bit of this and a little bit of that each evening when television ceases to hold my interest. 

I'll end this by saying that, in the process of discovering yet another function of the written word, I also am reminded again of how important and valuable journaling is. According to certain medical websites I've consulted, one of its benefits is that putting our thoughts and experiences down can also help us resolve personal conflicts, clear up doubts, or cast a new light on old experiences. 

Whatever their purpose, I've found they achieve their most value when we do take the time to go back to them. In some cases, this may stir up some very unpleasant memories, so each person has to decide for themselves just how far they are willing to go back in time and how much risk they're willing to take to relive difficult moments. It can evolve into almost a self-hypnosis session, as this type of personal and subjective writing has the power to take us right out of the moment and deposit us into another that is far removed by time, thus blurring our all sense of our immediate and present surroundings.

If someone is feeling melancholy and at odds with their past, then that trip down memory lane may be just be the thing that person needs. And they won't know this until they do it. If retracing their steps along that journey proves to be more than they want to deal with, they can always stop, put it down, and go back to it later, or not at all. It may also be that those old accounts will have lost much of their impact over time and may even prove to be more humorous or not nearly as gloomy. 

It's like any other journey. We can always turn back. 

As for me, I'm glad I didn't. I will be revisiting those old journal entries again, because it's all I have left of those times and those individuals who had once played such important roles in my life that I would never want to forget. 

Logos...words: rows of symbols on a page or a screen or in our minds that are the sum and total of who we are, all that we ever did, and that prevent our forgetting the past. If that's not power, then I don't know what is.

The Life-Giving Power of Words

In my last blog entry, I wrote at length about the loss of someone who'd once been very dear to me and whose death I found out about in the worst possible way. It took awhile before I realized that writing that entry had helped me feel a little better. As the days passed since then, I came to appreciate the power that words have to keep not only a person's memory alive, but also his or her essence. Somehow, writing the person's name and then reading and rereading it gives more revivifies the memory, almost as though I could pen or speak J. alive again by just those simple acts.

Of course, it doesn't work that way. But I think back to the biblical passage which reads "And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us." (John 1:14) Aside from the mystical and supernatural connotations of that passage beloved by Christians, the very idea that a word can create life is profound. And I often wonder if it has to do with the fact that some scientists believe that we do indeed create our own realities once we give them all names or speak them into existence in our minds, thus imparting life and immediacy to them. 

Oh, if it were only that easy to conjure up a lost loved by simply speaking his or her name! It's probably best that we can't, because there is no telling how far in the wrong direction such a power could take us. So I'll content myself with writing about those I've loved and lost and seeing them come to life on my computer screen or on a journal page.

There's another aspect of this process that also amazes me and that's when I go through old letters and cards and find the actual handwriting of someone I loved and who is not longer with me. It struck me particularly hard once when I found an old letter my mother had written me many years ago. Seeing her handwriting gave me a sensation that she was very close by, as if no time had passed since her passing and she was still readily available to me. 

There is so much of a person's spirit present in the words they etched out on paper, which now remains a testimony that yes, they really had existed once. And if the handwriting experts are right and no two people's handwriting styles ever match, then all the more reason to see a person in their writing. Those same experts also claim that much can be known about a person based on their particular writing style, which only adds to the belief that there is a sort of sacredness to anyone's handwriting, particularly if they are no longer with us. 

Creative writing is an art form by which we communicate in ways that are more elaborate and emotion-laden than, say, strict business writing or other types of formal communiques such as property deeds, office memos, or legal notices. And once again, there it is, the implication that, by writing, we can indeed create something, make it real and believable, make it felt. So that when I wrote about J. last week, I was in fact re-creating him for my own benefit without even realizing that I was doing just that. It was only later that I realized how much better I'd felt while I was setting down the timeline of our friendship and the years we spent together. Not only did that action being it all back to me, but I also got the sense that it had never really ended and that I could it going just by writing about it from time to time. If, by writing about it as well as about other people and things from my past that I've lost, I can continue to comfort myself until the time comes when I myself will leave this world, after which it will not longer be an issue. 

If there is indeed an afterlife and we will be, as so many believe (and as I like to believe) able to look up those loved ones, I'll be quite busy hunting up all those who've gone before me and who left vast empty spaces where their presences once were. 

In any case, I like the idea of having the ability to create merely with words. Maybe I can't reproduce the exact scenarios of particularly happy times or those individuals who once added substance to my life. But I can still derive some joy from watching them come to life again on my computer screen or on a journal page. 

And that will have to do. 

 

When "Love" is the Last Word You Hear

The woodstove that J. and I sat in front of on cold nights, the fire the only light in the room.

Yesterday was a good day up until the point where I checked the mail and noticed that a letter had been returned to me. There's a long story behind the writing of this letter, but for now, I'll just say that seeing it tucked in amongst my other mail only enhanced the bad feeling since the night the emotional tidal wave washed over me.

I'm using the words "tidal wave" metaphorically, because it wasn't that at all. I was not at the shore but sitting right here at my desk, when suddenly, a wave of memory crashed over me and pulled me completely under. I can't swim, so I know what almost drowning feels like. And this felt very much like that. Only it wasn't water threatening to drown me but the memory of a man I'd known long ago and that I'd totally lost touch with.

We met 21 years ago through an online chat room that was operated by Yahoo. Many people will remember the days of the Yahoo chat rooms. They were fun until they weren't, until the "rooms," as we called them, became overrun with chat bots that were there just to sell something that was, more often than not, pornographic in nature. With some discipline and self-control, chat rooms were a good venue for meeting new people, as long as one approached each potential new "friend" with caution. That's how I met J. And, as those who are familiar with chat rooms could attest, we instantly clicked. He sounded nice and not pushy like so many. We chatted awhile the first time and then again a few times until I decided to invite him to my place. From even just the few words he sent me, I already had a pretty good idea of what kind of person he was. His authenticity came through in his words, so that finally meeting him felt almost like deja vu.

At the time, I lived in a lovely little area in southern Maine called Lyman, a woodsy hilly territory dotted with small ponds and webbed by many small streams and brooks. I lived in a mobile home on top of a slope that looked down over a private dirt road, part of which I owned. Of my 5.2 acres, about 1/2 of an acre was occupied by the trailer, a workshop and a parking area. And at the bottom of the slope on the north side, a large 2-bay garage took up about another 1/8th of an acre. The rest was solid woodland on all sides, through which I'd forged paths and where I took many lovely solitary walks through the 13 years I was there.

Needless to say, J. fell in love with it the minute he saw it. A lover of solitude like I was, the place fit him and he fit it. We went on to have lots of very good times there during which we listened to music, danced, had private BBQ's, took walks in the woods, and sat in front of the wood stove with no other lights on other than the fire burning in the grate. If we'd done nothing else, it would have been enough. And it remains the strongest image of that time that I spent with J., along with the memory of the night we sat outside near the fire pit listening to owls hooting and the fire crackling.

In reality, J. was in Maine only temporarily. He was in the U.S. Navy, stationed at the Brunswick Naval Air Station and had a small apartment not far from the base, where I visited him a few times during the years he was here. Now that I look back on it, it wasn't a conventional relationship at all. I had no illusions about his feelings for me. I was 54 and he was 42, and I knew that the time we spent together was just that. He needed someone and something to fill his time in Maine, and I was willing to be that someone. I accepted him for what he was and for what he could give me, and nothing more. I asked few if any questions and accepted his few answers at face value. 

I did question whether or not I was short-changing myself for not making the attempt to learn more about him and to demand more from him than just what he was willing to give. But I instinctively knew that it would never go anywhere, that what was happening in Maine would never be continued anywhere else. Besides, it felt so right and we got along so well that I really couldn't ask for more. Conversely, I realized that there was an almost mystical force at work behind his having come into my life. J. was so unlike anyone I'd ever known, first and foremost because he wasn't "from here." He'd grown up in the upper Midwest as part of a large family before being stationed in various foreign places by the Navy. That had given him a much broader view of the world than I could ever possibly have, not ever having traveled much myself.

I'd had a very unconventional and troubled childhood, particularly after I turned 13. I'd gained weight during puberty and never lost it. High school was hell, and it was only after that I decided that, if I was ever going to have a life, it would only be possible if I lost some weight. I'd been body-shamed often during those years by people I'd come to love and trust, and those are deep emotional wounds that never completely heal. So watching this handsome and virile young man come into my life was an incongruity considering the cloistered life I'd led as a teenager who never felt she deserved much. In a very real sense, J. was to fill needs that had never been filled back then, and he did just that. As crude as it may sound, he was very malleable and open to anything, including playing a role in the large fantasy I'd constructed with him as its catalyst.

The first night he spent in my woodsy place, I watched him walk out to his truck to get a few things and I stood at the door thinking, "Now what are you going to do? You're 12 years older than he is. You have NO idea what to do or how to be around someone like him." And then I did something that was totally out of character for me: I threw all caution to the wind and just went with it. I decided to just be myself. So far, he hadn't found any reason to leave, so that was a good sign.

We were to spend many more such nights and weekends. About a year or so later, he was dispatched to Bahrain for a month in the summer of 2005. When he got back, we simply returned to our old playbook of having drinks in front of the fire and listening to music all night into the wee hours. I'd cook for him, and nothing I did ever displeased him. In a very real sense, he was almost too good to be true, and I wondered what I'd done to deserve such a gift at this stage in my life. 

In late fall 2005, he gave up his apartment in Brunswick and stayed with me one last week. The day he left, I knew there was a very good chance that I'd never see or hear from him again. It was a sad moment, but an inevitable one. I hated to see him go, as I'd gotten very attached to him, and I knew that I'd fallen in love with him. Watching him drive away down my long hilly driveway in his Silverado that day was one of the saddest moments of my life. I felt very empty for a long time after that, and I never did quite manage to fill the void he'd left behind. 

It was quite some time before I heard from him again, and then we started emailing again. He said he was thinking of coming back to Maine for a vacation, as he missed me and my woodsy place. In the fall of 2007, I drove to Manchester Airport in New Hampshire to pick him up. He stayed a week, and dropping him back off at the airport was another sad time for me. After that, it would be years before I would hear from him again. I lost all contact with him, and in January of 2012, I sold my trailer and moved to the small village of Springvale, where I spent less than a year before moving back to Lyman to a new apartment over a garage that overlooked Wadleigh Pond. I was to spend three glorious years there before moving to Saco, Maine in November 2015, where I still live to this day.

Again, I don't recall much of the next few years other than I again hadn't heard from J. in quite some time, so naturally I wondered where he was and how he was doing. I suspected he'd gone back to the life he had never spoken much about, so I did the only thing I could do, and that was to send him cards on his birthday and then a card at Christmas. I'd always include my phone number, in the event his life had changed again and he felt like calling an old friend. The cards never came back, so he must have gotten them or the post office just discarded them as undelivered.

I'd come to relegate all memory of him to the past, when one day he did call. I was surprised but very happy to hear from him, hear his deep voice on the phone that I hadn't heard in so long. We had some good conversations, a few laughs, and we agreed to keep in touch. That went on until some time in 2020 when, at one point, something he said bothered me, and I made the decision to stop talking to him. He'd said some unreasonable things to me in the past, and I'd hoped that was behind us now. But for some reason, I thought the best thing would be to just not accept his calls anymore. So I blocked his number and went on with my life, believing I'd done the right thing. I'm sure others would agree that it was the right thing, in light of the fact that HE had been unreachable, too, for so long. But in retrospect I did agonize over why I hadn't taken him up on the things he'd said and try to move past them in order to preserve the friendship. It was impulsive on my part to cut him off without another word, and I did think of calling him myself after that. But I didn't. I stuck to that decision, one that I now greatly regret having made.

Fast forward to 2024, and I'm bringing the undelivered letter to J. inside. Without even opening it, I immediately put it through the shredder. I realize then that there is no way I'll ever know what happened to him. I had kept track of him in a sense online, as he'd sent me pictures of his children and of the new house he'd bought in Minnesota. He'd also gotten himself a dog, and he'd spoken often to me on the phone about how much the pup brightened his life. So after shredding the letter, I decided to do a little research and Googled his property. One real estate site reported that it had been sold in March 2022. That didn't set off any alarms at first, as I simply assumed he'd decided to sell and move elsewhere. I had no idea if he was even still in the Navy, as he was in his late 50's by that time. Again, I had no way of knowing anything, but I didn't dwell on it and put it away in the back of my mind.

Then, one evening about two weeks ago, the veritable tidal wave of his memory hit me. It was around 7 p.m., grey and cloudy as though it would rain, and I was sitting here at this computer. I checked the realty site again to make sure that I'd read correctly, and I had. I realized that now, there was no way I could ever know where he'd gone to. I didn't dare try calling him anymore, as I had no idea whatsoever of where his life and his relationship status stood. That left me no other recourse but to just give up. 

His former mailing address had included a Post Office box number. His reason for doing that was that he didn't always get his mail due to the heavy snow they get in that area. So I decided to take a chance and send one last letter to him there. It was worth a shot, as he might still have been getting mail at the PO Box, or the post office might have forwarded the letter to him at his new address, wherever that was. It was worth trying. J. had always been worth it, and I was just only now realizing it.

For two weeks, I waited. Each time the phone rang, I hoped it was him, having decided to call me. I was ready for anything he'd have to say, good or bad. I just needed to hear his voice. But no. What calls I did get during those weeks were the usual from telemarketers and insurance companies, so I'd just delete them and keep hoping. Finally, at the end of those two weeks, when I'd almost stopped hoping, I opened the mailbox and there it was, the small envelope, bearing the familiar yellow label pasted over his PO Box number, informing me that the letter could not be delivered or forwarded. So that's it, I thought. He's moved and no longer gets his mail, so there is no way now that I'll ever know what happened him. Probably time to give up and console myself with the thought that I had, at least, tried.

When I got back inside, I shredded the letter unopened. Then, on an impulse that I didn't think would result in anything, I decided to try one more thing. I'd Googled his name often, but I'd never gotten anywhere with it. As unusual as his name is, there are plenty of other men with his exact name, with only their middle names being different. So I tried one more time in the hopes that it might link to a new address, a new town, a new place, something...anything...that might lead me back to him.

What I came up with was not at all what I'd expected. Of the top three links, the third showed his entire name, his date of birth, and...the date of his death. I grew numb with fear and thought...it can't be him. It must be another J. with the exact same middle name. But then I read the date of birth again, and I knew beyond a doubt that what I would read next would stop my world from turning. Once again, my intuition did not betray me. J. had indeed passed away in 2021, just a year after we'd last spoken, at the age of 59.

When I finally got the courage to open the link, there it was, his much younger face, smiling into the camera from beneath the Navy cap...the same deep dark eyes, the same tiny mustache, and the same playful little smile I'd seen so many times before. Then came the long list of survivors and those who had preceded his passing. I read it once, twice, and a few more times after that, trying to absorb the truth, and the final verdict: that I had at last found out what had happened to him and where he now was. The final confirmation was the photo of the pristine white headstone with his name and dates of birth and death, followed by the inscription: He now soars with the eagles.

So my search had ended, and not on the note I'd hoped for. The possibility that this is what I'd find had never entered my mind. But then, I thought back to the last phone conversation we'd ever had, some time back in 2020, which he had ended it in a way that he never had before, by saying "I love you, Rachel." I'd replied "I love you, too, J." That was the last time I was to ever his deep resonating voice, and it had left a strange feeling in me that he would say that to me in such a sincere way. Had he been trying to tell me something that day? Now I'll never know.

As I write this, I still haven't come to terms with the reality that now, I no longer have to wonder where he is and that I no longer have the chance to make things right with him. I'll never hear his voice again, never see his handsome face glowing in the light from a wood fire, never feel his arm wrap around me in bed. All of it is in the past now, and so is he.

I miss him, more than I can find the words to express here. I miss his vitality, his youthfulness, his sense of humor and adventure. I miss how we both loved many of the same things. I never forgot what he said to me once when we were in my bedroom. He was lying down watching me and I was at the window looking out over the woods he loved as much, if not more, than I did. "This place is where I belong," I said. "It's where I should have been all along." He replied, "You ARE this place, Rachel, and it is you." 

Yes, I miss J. terribly. And if there is an afterlife, if there is a heaven or a wonderful place where there is no longer any weeping or suffering or sickness, and if one of the privileges of being there is that you can look down on those you left behind and he can see me standing here among them, then I pray that he looks kindly down on me and remembers, not only our good times together, but the fact that I loved him but never thought I had the right to say it. So I will now: I love you, J. I did then, I do now, and I always will. You touched my life in a way that no one has before or since, and you made so many of my dreams and wishes come true, more than you ever knew. Of all the people I've met whose memories have remained with me, your shines the most brightly.

So rest in peace, my old friend J. Soar with the eagles and bask in whatever reward God has blessed you with. And remember Rachel, your friend in Maine, who tried very hard to get you out of her heart but who never quite succeeded. 💖

The little fire pit where J. and I spent many wonderful evenings.

And a Tiny Bird Fluttered in...Victoria's Story

 

I think that we can all attest to the fact that certain life events simply stop us in our tracks. It happens to everyone at one time or another, and the impact is no less intense no matter who experiences it. Life is indeed a journey, with many poets using wonderful and lyrical language through the centuries to describe such things as unexpected detours and instances where they had to choose from multiple roads moving off in different directions. 

Thirty-one years ago today, I was stopped brutally in my tracks, my own journey brought to a screaming halt by something I never saw coming. (Few of us ever do see it coming, and even if we do, we are still totally unprepared when the exact moment arrives.) 

It was a warm sunny day just like today, and I was in a room in the hospital's maternity wing watching my daughter come to terms with the fact that her tiny daughter, her first-born, would not be with us much longer. Born with a severe birth defect known as Renal Agenesis, or Potter's Syndrome, little Victoria spent her first and last few hours of life being showered with love and tears, many tears. I, along with a few other members of the immediate family, stood by, waiting for my turn to hold her and to try to impart to her all the love I could summon in such a short time. And then, she was gone, and the image is still burned like a brand into my memory of my daughter sitting there in the bed, totally helpless, totally powerless, and totally broken. The wound has long since healed, but the scar remains in my soul at not only having watched as my first grandchild was taken away against the hopes of everyone in that room, but also seeing how empty and lost my daughter looked.

Now here it is, 31 years later, and it's like it is happening again, right now, for the images retained from that day clutter my memory like a collage, each one overlapping each other, none fully and clearly visible. And that's what it felt like that day...one big hazy stage where all the players moved around as in a mist that has never fully quite lifted to this day.

So, little Victoria, who would no longer be little had life had different plans for her, came into our lives softly and quietly and went out of them the same way. But despite the short amount of time, her presence left a mark as deep as if she had lived to be 100. 

I've often compared her to a tiny bird that lights on a branch, sings a few quick notes, and flutters away again to parts unknown. And that is how I think of Victoria now...fluttering in and then fluttering out, leaving me, leaving us, all the more enriched by her preciously short time with us. 

Taking Emerson's Advice

In this fast-paced world, the comforts are few and far between. But despite that, I still take great solace from Nature and the intimate relationship I have long had with her, one that started when I was a child. It deepened much later when I spent several nearly two decades living in the woods of southern Maine, and with the help of a friend, I've created a video of those years.

I hope you enjoy it and that it inspires you to adopt the mantra of the great naturalist write, Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGXFLf6KSwU

A Legacy of Sorts

During a conversation I had recently with a friend, she commented on how much she used to like my newspaper articles. When she asked what I'd been doing since I stopped writing them, I told her that I'd gathered about a year's worth of those essays and had them published in book form. It was, I explained, my way of leaving something more tangible for posterity's sake, something more lasting than a trail of newspaper articles that would eventually get lost in some virtual and dusty archive.

This fits right in with why people write books in the first place: they either have an important story to tell, a lesson to teach, or a vital message to get across. And while a newspaper article can be pleasant to read, it doesn't, in my opinion, offer the same lasting value as do words preserved forever between two covers. It's no secret that some books are written purely for their entertainment value. The stories they tell lack substance and are designed merely to help pass the time on a rainy afternoon. Then, there are those books that teach and from which we stand to learn something new or be reminded of something we might have forgotten. As for poetry, they are paintings that use words rather than pigments to tell a story or to share the author's thoughts in a unique, lyrical and often highly memorable way, condensing often complex ideas into neat packages of symbols and mental images.

Essay writing, on the other hand, differs in that it generally conveys important truths or information either individually or collectively. A single essay can tell a small piece of the story, while a collection of them based on a specific theme expand and extend into all sorts of possible directions that theme might be taken in. Based on fact, essays not only share knowledge but broaden perspectives, and the themes of many are timeless and never lose their meaning no matter how faded their pages.

Writing is hard work, and the competition is stiff, given how the internet has opened venues up to everyone and anyone who can type a legible word. Bad writing abounds, but don't tell its authors that. For many delude themselves into thinking that contributing to micro-blogs at a penny-per-view makes them bonafide writers. Anyone can nail a few boards together into something that vaguely resembles a book shelf. But only an artisan can make that book shelf into something you'd want to preserve for all time. And therein lies the difference between writing and good writing, only there are exponentially lots more words to wade through than there are poorly-nailed-together boards before one reaches that conclusion.

So back to my own attempts at writing, humble as they are. I knew going in that there was a very good chance that I'd die before ever getting rich off them. And on that note, I take great comfort in the fact that many of the world's best and classic authors were long gone before their work made an impact. Names like Dickinson, Poe, Kafka, Hurston, Keats and Lovecraft are hardly to be scoffed at. But in truth, they all left bodies of work that would be appreciated only after their demises. That's a sobering truth indeed, and it leaves a writer, any writer, with a choice to make between hoping for some sort of tangible remuneration or writing simply to keep one's spirit alive long after the clock has stopped ticking.

Because writing, like any art, is an extension of the author's spirit. And writing, like any art, requires imagination that generates ideas, and when enough of those ideas have accumulated, they need somewhere to go, releasing bits and pieces of the creator's psyche in the process. This is easy to see in van Gogh's "Starry Night," where those twirling star vortexes adequately depict the painter's inner state at the time. It's not so easy to decipher in Toni Morrison's complex narration, but it's there in how she makes us dig to find its meaning.

So I hold in my hand a purple book that contains a year's worth of impressions garnered when I lived in the woods or some place that wasn't far from them. Hopefully others will hold their own copies, too, and I am going to try very hard to see that that happens. Not because I seek fame and fortune but because I'm in that book sharing what I've done, where I've been, what I've seen, and what I've learned, and I hope that readers are listening.


https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876

The Path Not Taken

The decision to share my writing in a different format did not come easily. It meant weeks of soul-searching and wondering if it was indeed the right choice to make. For almost six years, I wandered the woods and fields in this part of the world or took long roundabout drives that led me farther and farther and more deeply into the world of nature, beyond her external trappings, beyond what she chooses to show those who only cast casual glances about them but don't invite, for whatever reasons, their other senses, or their souls, into the process.

There was a time when I myself could be in a lovely place and not see it for what it was. I might have been lost in conversation with someone or focused on some other activity or event that minimized my surroundings. But then, I moved to the woods, and it was there that I finally learned not only to see, but to feel, to let nature wash over me and impart her own unique sort of wisdom, one which is often not possible to even put into words.

During those years, I went through periods in my life when nature and her beauty receded from my view to allow other things in, things that had to be dealt with, sadnesses that had to be borne, problems that needed working out, losses that had to be shouldered, and changes beyond my control that had to be faced. When I think back, I remember it occurring to me following any of those experiences that, had it not been for nature and her solace, lurking ever in the background and on their fringes, I might not have come through it all as unscathed as I did.

Now, my hope is that those snippets of time of which this book is made, these sights, sounds and impressions, will continue to float out there in the universe like milkweed or dandelion seeds, alighting wherever they will and taking root in the minds of others, where it will hopefully spark the same sort of curiosity, the same level of passion, that nature has instilled in me.

I'm grateful to all who go on that walk with me, as it is one we cannot take often enough.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1530989876