in spirare

a little too bushed to write, but am gonna, anyway. i'm moved in many ways by our last few days visiting family. found out our retired parents volunteer for five & more agencies & serve on three boards. "i have to keep myself busy," mama said casually, "or i just start thinking about myself all the time & get depressed!" it sparked me & i got online & finally put in the job apps i'd been procrastinating over. then, the lightbulb: i realized what book i should be writing. bam! in a flash: there it was! an idea prompted by love, too, which dad concurred is the compelling reason one should write.
john updike's daily morning routine was to write for 3 hours at his typewriter from the windowed attic of his new england home; lately i've been gnawed at by the knowledge i should be doing that, too (tho not in an attic, & not in john updike's new england home, but you get the picture...) but i'm not creative, see; that's what i've told myself for years. i can't write a novel. i can't write poems (although i do write songs, copiously & uncontrollably, even).  but applying the discipline of work to the practice of an artistic pleasure such as writing or music, that i can do. and who knows: maybe a novel COULD come of that. for now, with book topic in mind, let's see what i actually can do... 30 days now into my newest practice, even tho i keep hitting those speed bumps because i'm still learning when to steer, when to surrender the wheel, i feel emboldened to add more life-rigor, to be more like our folks & niece (read on), to try harder, to be braver, more affectionate, more trusting, to not give in to the infernal head...
just now, mama & i had a sweet, poignant, long conversation w/my niece (mama's beloved granddaughter), who today in class presented her 1st short story & was met w/overwhelmingly positive feedback. this usually reserved girl cried tears of joy & gratitude & admitted how mad she'd been at herself for giving up writing for a while, having decided it to be impractical. "but it calls to you," i ventured, & she nodded. "it's your passion; you mustn't abandon it ever again!" i said, remembering when i was too "practical" (& drunk) to play piano, how i missed it, how i even felt lonely & ashamed w/o it, like part of me was missing. she nodded w/agreement... we listened proudly as mama talked about her successes as a college writer & later, master teacher. mama was the type of dedicated inborn educator who made others like me look like hacks. her classroom was so beautiful w/art & writing, i felt like quitting every time i visited, yet so damned proud... suddenly james blew thru the room dressed to the 9's & headed to gig, spouting funny stuff to maddy as he departed. dad had drawn him a big silly map & wandered in the room for a minute to tell a dadaish story before wandering back to his computer, where he is working on another historical piece. it's a crazy artistic family, we agreed, w/the emotional rollercoasters that accompany that, but also w/the huge soul satisfactions that come from creating. (you should see the sculpting james has been doing lately, btw! i hope that he will have a show some time soon, & an idea's afoot, i hope!)
i sat down to read maddy's story. i'm a big reader, but my time on earth's getting shorter, so these days at the library, when i pull a title from the shelf, i give it a sentence -- at most, paragraph -- before deciding to choose it or not. ... maddy's story's 1st sentence was astonishing. it took my breath away. i quickly ran in to the other room to read it aloud to mom & dad & we all marveled & smiled & puzzled: "how did she DO that?"
i half-joked to madeline, "when you become a millionaire writer, i want you please to buy me a grand piano." she laughed appreciatively, & my heart is warm & proud & pleased to've gotten to spend the eve w/those i did in the manner that i did... that's all for now.