Tuesday, May 10
When I was about my Nico's age, I declared that I would be a writer when I grew up. Specifically a poet because at that time I really got a kick out of word play. So for two plus decades I have been saddled with my own expectation of becoming a writer, like a prize winning novelist sort of writer. Being on a hiatus from grad school, I decided to finally pursue my dream. And it turns out that I have outgrown it. I don't like writing fiction. I hardly even read fiction anymore. But it has been hard to release myself from this promise of becoming a writer. What has made it easier has been rediscovering something I do like to do. I like to draw.
Now, I know I am not good or even decent but that is okay with me. And that is how I know that making and drawing is my actual path. I was never that interested in improving my writing craft but I readily accept the challenge of learning how to draw better. I find myself looking at everything with curiosity, trying to determine how I would begin to draw the fallen bicycle, the accordion covers between the subway cars.
Perhaps it has something to do with following a Buddhist path and my pursuit of mindfulness. Drawing keeps me present and aware while writing throws my mind into a daydream world that has fogged over most of my days on this planet.
I want to be here, as it is, at this moment. Poorly drawn pictures and all.