I sit here tonight at the age of twenty-nine wondering how far I’ve come in understanding writing and life, more importantly, the writing life and wisdom. I don’t necessarily mean my own, but the tangible, just tangible writing and even concerning scrolls and parchment and antiquity; even hieroglyphics, even caves and wondering.
I feel like I’m on the verge of thirty-something.
If writing were just communication, would it have come this far? Wouldn’t the mountains and birds and seas have quieted themselves by now? There is so vast a destiny in communication, so great an understanding, so therapeutic and at the same time jostling--like bowed instruments with crescendos and diminutives, like the rise and fall of empires, leaders, lives…They say the first real reporting were the annals of Greece and I wonder how wise society as a whole has become.
I’ve found personally that good writing comes with age, with wisdom. That my writing comes like a grape once from the vine to the bottle of the vineyard’s best.
So this fall has been especially beautiful in Cleveland to me, and I’m beginning to think it is because of my age. Because with age, I am noticing beauty better, more precisely, articulately, and yes, literally.
Michael invited me to be a contributor some time ago, but I wanted to post something meaningful and to this end, this entry is dedicated to Autumn ‘09. Especially as she closes herself for the coming winter on into opening the spring, on into next year, on into a more meaningful ‘fall.’
I hope anyone reading this has born witness to its beauty and wisdom this year.