findingtimetowrite

Thinking, writing, thinking about writing…

Archive for the month “August, 2012”

The Road Taken

There were no great forks in the path in the woods:

just hundreds of small threads, tentative, half-explored,

where we did or did not venture.

So, tread by tread, we found ourselves

so far from where we wished to go, so lost alone and afeard,

that finding the way back seemed hopeless

yet forging ahead impossible.

 

Next life, when we embark on forest challenges,

we’d like well-worn routes, please, and clear signs at forks in the road,

stating loudly the consequences of chasing one path over the other

So that loss does not creep up on us,

unaware

yet deathly efficient.

 

 

 

Home and Marketplace

Thank you all for bearing with me while I have been away.  I loved reading all of your comments last night, when I returned from holiday, apologies for not replying to each one of you personally.  I was touched that my blog has not been completely forgotten or abandoned while I have been missing in action.  Slowly, gradually, I will catch up with all of you and what you have written in the meantime.

In other news though… There is a Romanian saying: ‘What you calculate at home does not match what you calculate at the marketplace’.  In other words, no matter how much you attempt to plan things just so, life and external circumstances have a habit of upsetting your apple-cart.  And my particular apple-cart was to have a revised version of my novel finished by the end of this month.

Did I have the distraction of Internet and social media?  No.  Did I spend lots of time at the beach or clubbing or meeting friends, in other words on social distraction? No.  Did I have the children constantly under my feet demanding my attention? No.  Did I have to worry about cooking and housekeeping? No.

With all of the above excuses consigned to the rubbish bin, did I work hard on editing my novel? Errr… no!

Tick tock, a life is passing…

Whose life?

A dozen wasted days of summer,

a dozen prisons of the mind.

Not much, you say, middle-class suffering

of course.

But over the years –  300 days when I could have birthed meaning,

done something worthwhile,

made things matter.

Nearly a year of living dangerously.

Not

Nearly a life.

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