At the Center

By J. K. Grodzins | Dec 14, 2010
My friends are asking me these days, am I writing much? I usually have a moments pause where I then say, no, not really, I wish I were.

Sometimes the person asking the question is a writer. It then occurs to me how many writers are here in our midst. Many, many it seems. And not just your average writers, but writers with the greatest acclaim. Writers who could hardly be more successful if they tried. I could include Stephen King in this count if I wanted to, but he's almost  from "away"  when it comes to the proximity of the writers who are among us. I won't start naming names of course, as I would miss a few, and maybe some of these writers don't want to be outed. They'd rather have their quite hide-a-way just out of town, or their little spot on the ocean, or their cabin in the woods, where there's no sign on the private drive to let you know.... that you've just driven by one of the most famous writers in the world.

But you know for me it's not just about the writers, it's about the potters, and painters, and weavers, and filmmakers, and the cabinet makers, too. And the Vermeer Quartet, and the teachers. The teachers of art, and music. The work of Bay Chamber, and the students they nurture. The furniture builders, boat builders, violin makers. The conceptual artists.The thinkers, the theorists. The grande dames.

Where was I? I'm dizzy with delight as I think of this tapestry of talent and wonder. The chefs and the artistry of a perfect meal, with food from our gardens, and fish from the sea and all that it brings to your soul and your spirit, not to mention your body.

So, have I been writing much, not really.

Am I a writer? I don't know.  I do though feel like I'm at the center of a flower that is constantly in bud, and opening and blooming, that I am a bit of a pistil, the stigma, just in the middle of this flower.  This flower is my world and somehow I'm in the center of it.I am amazed at the power and the beauty and the strength of this flower, and the fact that it blooms all year. I'm amazed that I'm here at all, let alone in the middle of this bud that is always always in bloom.

There's a flower called a night blooming cereus. It's a beautiful flower to be  sure, but it blooms just once a year and at night.  The blossom that is my life, that is my world, is always here before me. It is for me to treasure and be part of day after day, rain or shine.

So yes, I write of my love of this life, of the world that is before me.Of this place that is home.  Of this coast, and of these hills, of the rivers and saltwater farms, and little cottages down on a lane, and paths and trails taken again and again.

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