We commit to writing a book, we commit to riding a wave. The long, slow stroke toward the center of the sea, the struggle to board and gain balance, the turbulent chase toward the shore, the break down, the swim back, the interminable wait for a wave (the right wave) to lift us up again.
"You know how hard this is?" I asked somebody, this weekend.
But he looked at me as if all I was actually doing was sitting in a nice, clean room, with a bright light on, a ripe peach in one hand as I worked. The gentle
splish of the rain beyond.
We all have our own ways of seeing.
Published on August 15, 2011 07:05