- Pearl S. Buck
During my morning run, I notice a man scaling sides of a sea cliff. He eventually tumbled into the water. I ask his observers what is going on with the dangerous venture?
"He's getting ready for a proposal."
Of what I wonder? They don't elaborate. He's a bounce short of quadriplegia.
Another fellow throws rocks at pelicans and cormorants. My vocabulary colors his day.
Do I need to become a porcupine when passing oncoming walkers who don't share the road? Tourists chatter, find me invisible and bump me with their entitlement.
After observing a child kicking at a seagull, I have had it. What is missing from these lives?
What does it mean to be human? We desire rights but what about self-responsibility?
After my morning run, I need a pen to evacuate the frustration. Then a dig in the garden helps. I add fresh blooms and ponder Pearl Buck's thoughts to search for amusement.
Ah! with the nurture of writing and nature, I gradually return to my ever-buoyant self.
I can't change the world but I can change my focus with creativity.
The words of Ann Patchett circulate through my brain, "Writing is a job, a talent, but it's also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon."
I retreat to my pen as the tea water burbles to a boil.