Feeding the Birds



And Looking back over the course of my painted life, I found a masterpiece of improvisation, a wondrous dance with the universe. Typing at my keyboard, hearing the busy taps of fingers working like ants, it dawned on me that life isn’t about success. It isn’t about financial security, retirement, or any of the things that we “ought” to worry about. While these are necessary considerations if one isn’t planning to live as a monk or a hobo, they are not the keys to a life of meaning. Or maybe I should say, to a life of meaning, for me.

I’m coming to understand that, for me, meaning is writing. I don’t have a choice. I have to write, read, and think in a particular and consistent manner. I was born with a melodramatic soul. I didn’t choose it, it chose me. A romantic, I love the power of language to pull out the splendor and wonder of every day experience. I understand now that the breakdowns I’ve had have been due to the denial of this fundamental need. In the narrow interests of conforming and competing, I almost allowed what was truly “the anchor of my soul” to slip through my fingers.

This morning, I awoke and fed the birds. That is a gift worth more than gold.


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