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Today I'm sharing a wonderful quote from a children's book. This is from "The Magician's Elephant" by Kate DiCamillo.
Pg. 154
"But that is impossible," said Peter.
"Magic is always impossible," said the magician. "It begins with the impossible and ends with the impossible and is impossible in between. That is why it is magic."
Friday, July 19, 2013
Sunday, April 28, 2013
The Bravery of Sparrows
I've been on a long blogging hiatus, for lots of reasons. For one, I have a new full-time job. Although I started in September it has taken time to get used to the schedule of my new life. Finding balance is difficult. I do better some days than others.
My writing has been pushed to the back burner. I didn't think I missed it, until I took some time the other day and spent time writing. I've missed it. Writing is not like breathing to me, I don't have to do it to survive. I realize, however, that it is part of who I am. It enriches me, it makes me feel more whole, more complete. I went home a couple weekends ago. When I go home to my dad's farm I usually take a long walk past the meadow and through the fields. I didn't do that last time I was there. It was muddy and I didn't have the right kind of shoes. Writing for me is like walking the hills at home. I miss it when I don't do it.
I'm going to work on doing it more. Winter is over. The sun is shining again and though my heart aches about certain things, it is time to return to what lies in my soul. Writing helps me navigate my heartbreak. So I must write. I must find the balance between work and family and self and obligation and creativity and suffering. I think we call this living. It is hard, hard stuff.
"She had always wondered at the bravery of it. The sparrows jumped before they knew how to fly, and they learned to fly only because they jumped" (Liesel & Po, by Lauren Oliver, pg 108).
I'm no sparrow. I don't fly. I plod along like everyone else. I don't pretend to know what it takes to leap. I only know how to do the best I can, which is less on most days than it should be. I don't know if I'm learning or getting stronger, I only know that I am still here. The sparrows are braver than I am. I do, though, look at the mountains and trees and awe in the beauty of the world. I do this even when I am so, so sad.
"Perhaps that was how the sparrows did it too; perhaps they were looking so hard at the peaks and tips of the new rooftops covered with dew, and the vast new horizon, that they only forgot that they did not know how to fly until they were already in midair" (Liesel & Po, pg 111).
Ah, if I could be so brave.
My writing has been pushed to the back burner. I didn't think I missed it, until I took some time the other day and spent time writing. I've missed it. Writing is not like breathing to me, I don't have to do it to survive. I realize, however, that it is part of who I am. It enriches me, it makes me feel more whole, more complete. I went home a couple weekends ago. When I go home to my dad's farm I usually take a long walk past the meadow and through the fields. I didn't do that last time I was there. It was muddy and I didn't have the right kind of shoes. Writing for me is like walking the hills at home. I miss it when I don't do it.
I'm going to work on doing it more. Winter is over. The sun is shining again and though my heart aches about certain things, it is time to return to what lies in my soul. Writing helps me navigate my heartbreak. So I must write. I must find the balance between work and family and self and obligation and creativity and suffering. I think we call this living. It is hard, hard stuff.
"She had always wondered at the bravery of it. The sparrows jumped before they knew how to fly, and they learned to fly only because they jumped" (Liesel & Po, by Lauren Oliver, pg 108).
I'm no sparrow. I don't fly. I plod along like everyone else. I don't pretend to know what it takes to leap. I only know how to do the best I can, which is less on most days than it should be. I don't know if I'm learning or getting stronger, I only know that I am still here. The sparrows are braver than I am. I do, though, look at the mountains and trees and awe in the beauty of the world. I do this even when I am so, so sad.
"Perhaps that was how the sparrows did it too; perhaps they were looking so hard at the peaks and tips of the new rooftops covered with dew, and the vast new horizon, that they only forgot that they did not know how to fly until they were already in midair" (Liesel & Po, pg 111).
Ah, if I could be so brave.
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