I used to write everyday. I used to write everyday, no matter what. Whether I was tired from work, dealing with family or relationship issues, a little tipsy, no matter the state of mind, no matter the location, I wrote. I did it for almost two years (2007/2008 seems about right). I think the goal was at least one page a day. I’ve been thinking about getting into that practice again but setting it by time instead of by page. I think I need to invest the time to learn the craft. To practice the craft of spinning words into dreams. I am going to think of some sort of a schedule and work myself up to an hour a day at some point in 2015. It’s entirely doable. I am not registering for school until the Fall,which affords me the time to make this necessary change in my life.
I feel inspired because a friend posted a poem by Khalil Gibran today on FB. It is a beautiful one that speaks to me:
The Playground of Life XIX
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
And Love is worth a full century of glory
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man’s Truth; and
During that century Truth sleeps between
The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself
The Natural Law, and for that century she
Imprisons herself behind the law of man;
And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a
Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is
Purified by flaming sorrow and
Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth
Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent
On self-investment taken solely from
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages;
Recorded earthly for centuries;
Lived in strangeness for years;
Sung as a hymn for days;
Exalted but for an hour, but the
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.