Monday, January 30, 2017


The excuses are legion: my heel burns from the still mending tendon; I am tired; I need time to myself; trash is overflowing; my bikes need maintenance; and on and on. And there are things to do, things that are bigger than my little litany of complaints. Being small of horizon and low of ambition, those callings to something bigger than myself are recent phenomena. Mainly, the tug out of my little me-me universe happens on Saturdays, when I go to the prison to meet with men and talk about their writing. I have to sidestep all the Lilliputuan strings of habit and limitation and go for the larger life. Yes, I am a bit embarrassed to say, I believe in the power of creative self-expression enough to give up my Saturdays to go out to the prison to practice it. Now, it wouldn't have to be prison. I could just convene a writer's group and meet on the front porch. But that wouldn't have the urgency, the focus, the immediacy that the prison workshops have. We would be a bunch of comfortable individuals dabbling in our hobby, not hanging onto the hope that the key to freedom of mind might be found in arranging words, would not hold the pressure of life or death. It's sometimes hard to see the bigger picture. I have to squint as I head down Wilmot Road, to see the faces that wait for me down there. Well not me exactly, but the opportunity, the possibility, that a heart might find form for a wild hair of an idea, might discover a reason to carry on, to do the hard time living larger than the easy way. 

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