Tuesday, February 21, 2017
When I was sixteen, I started keeping a journal. The words I wrote in that spiral notebook paved a path to someone I did not previously know, but who seemed to know himself. Those words spoke with an authority that the sixteen-year-old "I," in my day-to-day life, did not possess. They rolled out onto the page and told a story about wanting to embark on an adventure of both travel and learning. Because of them I hitch-hiked to Montana, read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and joined the world of letters. I left home for the University of Wisconsin, traveled to Europe, Mexico, and South America. In spite of a lack of experience, I enrolled in writing programs. I have been a faithful, servant, more or less, to the call to write, teach, and keep learning. The days, now, are getting dimmer, and I'm not sure what I have to show for the journey, the work. As a small token, there are now five hundred posts on this blog. I don't know how many more will see the light of electronic day, but here they are for now, more than anyone could ever want to read. The words just keep pouring out. I only hope they get better with age.