It’s still early. That’s true. A true sentence. Regardless of how little there is left of the day, it’s still early. There’s time yet to write the daily clutch of words. Despite the fact that my brain is doing its usual whirring with all the things to get done, the manuscripts needing edits, consult calls to make, talks and articles
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It’s a crazy dark day, the kind we get in Portland in the winter where you have to keep the lights on in the house all day because of the thick gray haze blanketing the world. It can get into your skin. So on this rainy day, I’m pondering about musings. And about how most things in life come down
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(on slowness) Many people believe we are living in one of the most stressful times in history. The stress isn’t about being eaten by dinosaurs or how we’ll escape the marauding Vikings. People are now eaten by schedules and crushing poverty. A friend of mine said recently the modern family is living life at an abusive pace. And writing takes
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“I will sit still and let the marvels and the adventures settle on me like flies. There are plenty of them, I assure you. The world will never starve for want of wonders, but only for want of wonder.” –G.K. Chesterton (on my small, slow faith…) Sometimes I feel like a wisp of wind next to the overwhelming breeze of others’ faith.
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“This above all—ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple, “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and lightest hour must
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