I feel very nervous to write, because I am thinking somehow I am going to do it wrong. Or I could succeed and then I would be labeled a writer and the success will take the fun and passion out of it. In a way that exact same thing happen with photography, people started to expect something and I started to get paid. It changed from pure passion to a kind of requirement, I used to wonder anywhere and everywhere just to get the one picture that made the whole world freeze in that one moment of pure beauty. I was a photographer because I felt like I was creating something bigger than myself I was creating an unfiltered moment that was never going to happen again. What I need to do is figure out how to do both. It has to possible Confucius said ” Choose a job you love and you will never have to work a day in your life.” So here I am sitting on my ancient cloud blanket in the magnificent sunshine probably spelling half of these words wrong writing about writing. It seems there is some poetic justice or irony in there somewhere. I began this day sitting in a quaint coffee shop soaking up some rays reading “A year I the World” by Frances Mayes, in Eagle, Idaho. But really strolling along the cobbled streets of Sicilian towns with Frances and her husband Ed. She transports be to another place where I would so desperately love to be. Then out of the corner of my eye I see a group of elderly people, two men and a women, poring over a map of Europe, drastically increasing my longing, reality sinks in that I am still sitting at a table in the sunshine in Idaho not in a peaceful garden by the Sicilian sea. Although what comes with this brutal realization is that, reading about the majesty of Italian waters and fresh baked bread every morning still gives me a renewed passion for living. The sky seems deeper blue and the clouds are fluffier with a pearl glow. Everyone sitting around me is silently telling me there Saturday morning story. I am overcome with a new love for the day so full of the possibilities that reading a good book, going on a adventure or falling in love can give you. I find myself wondering what to do with the last Saturday 14, 2014 I will ever live. On my way down the road my stomach does a not so silent scream to remind me I have not eaten since my boysenberry toast almost 5 hours ago. Maybe I should listen and get it some food so I can continue to think of other things. I flip a uey to stop and get a caprese sandwich some fresh maroon cherries and an ice cold raspberry Arizona tea. With my lunch in hand I head to the river for a picnic with my notebook and Frances Mayes. It takes us all a good 10 minute on a dusty foot trodden trail to find the perfect spot. We decide on a short wooden bridge with a canopy of sun laden trees above a nearly silent river flowing beneath us. Once I get my stomach to stop ragging a riot I begin to enjoy all that is around me. The worn wooden bridge on which my cloudy blanket is rested, the rusty colored steel banisters that are stopping me from joining the fish in the river below. The sun reflecting on the water and landing on the bark of the trees causing them to seamlessly skimmer all on there own. I slowly eat a plump wine colored cherry and split out the small round seeds as I listen to the wind through the trees, the cars on the road a good distance away and the meandering river, while Balmorea is quietly conducting the entire symphony. I woke up today with completely different expectations for this Saturday, but I could not be more grateful for all that it has given me.
What I Hope is Only the Beginning…
15 Jun This entry was published on June 15, 2014 at 11:24 pm and is filed under Uncategorized.