From my Vacation Journal
7:50AM and the sun is coming finally through the window, reversing the shadows on my coffee cup.
There is something satisfying about filling pages of journals. This one and the work-a-day one are just about full. I have replacements in waiting.
Will anyone ever look at them but me?
I suspect not.
And to what end. I write because I believe that writing is was I was created to do.
That sounds… grandiose.
But I was created to be a husband and a father and a writer.
I am not saying to be great at any of them. But I think I have been very good as a father and relatively good as a husband.
The writing, of course, is another matter altogether.
I write, I dream, I wonder.
I am limited and unlimited by a stubborn personality that will not share my writing to be critiqued. Which will not let me open my writing to mentors or peers or suggestions.
I am am freed and doomed to do it my own way.
To find delight and wonder and pain and anger where most others find only the ideas they have inherited and the words they have been given.
I was lucky enough to find a woman who keeps me tethered to the earth and reality.
I was lucky enough to have daughters who are brilliant and beautiful and kind.
I was lucky enough to have pain and suffering that I could endure.
I was lucky enough to be born when and where I was.
I was lucky enough to be born male and white and hence, to have easier battles to face.
I was lucky.