An Interesting life

I have picked apples, built boats, managed the collection of a museum, swung a hammer, been responsible for multimillion dollar construction projects, and done a dozen other jobs. I’ve rolled in the dough and lived on the edge of poverty. Now I write and so far it is the toughest job.

Like any art and craft writing requires an open heart, it requires one to look and see and listen and hear very, very carefully. This all comes naturally enough; the tough part is living with the accumulated experience and knowledge which makes one acutely aware of the good and bad of life, every minute of every day in the thick of it. That many writers become raging alcoholics or commit suicide is no surprise. Writing requires unending honesty and empathy, it requires not slipping into the comfortable cloaks of judgment, of cowardice. It requires love and acceptance.

My sister Vic sent me a birthday card quoting Helen Keller: “Life is a daring adventure, or nothing.” Yes. Thank you Vic for getting it, you’re a gem.

The fellow who lives down the road drives in and out of his place three, four, five times a day. What the heck is he up to? (A friend suggested he’s dealing drugs.) He must be the itchiest guy on the planet. While his one man parade is annoying, I feel for him.

I watch a bird fly and marvel at the shapes of the wings and body, nature’s work, constant honing. The bird slips through the air, free, slips through the bounds of gravity and earth. It goes about its way, shrinking to a point in the sky and then disappears from sight. But it is still there. The sky and the light change. I feel joy and thanks for the mystery of things unseen.

I puzzle at how we’re smart enough to get ourselves into all sorts of trouble but not smart enough to get out. Conversely our intelligence may be our undoing. The sadness, the horror and pain we cause one another in war and myriad other atrocities tears me apart.

The balance tips back and forth between beauty and ugliness and life goes on.

And so there are times I cannot write, my mind and heart lock and I spend a day or a week or a month agonizing over it all. Nothing comes out, the screen stays blank. This is the worst. I pace or sit. I look out the window. I do something else, anything else, just to get away from the not writing.

Things happen which may not gel until later. I stand at the sink washing dishes and remember – the image in my mind overwhelms me – the simple joy, the brilliant smile of a little girl I saw yesterday at a taco joint. She sat with her dad and would sip her drink through the straw and they talked, and she would tip her head back and look around with her twinkling dark eyes and giggle and smile. And for those moments the world laughed, the world sang with unmitigated joy. Her dad would smile and tenderly stroke his hand over her head and down her back. They were so happy, it was wonderful to see this. Their tacos arrived, each a present in crinkly paper they eagerly unwrapped. Daughters can bring out a tenderness in men rarely seen. It is so very sweet.

I hear the swish and whoop of a raven’s wings beating the air as it lands on the roof of the house, it clucks and chortles and in a moment flies away, swhoop, whoop, whoop. The sun is going down and I finish doing the dishes.

Then there’s a year’s work tossed off by publishers with notes to this effect coming back, copied on strips of paper and this only because I supplied an SASE. And money, if there is any money is only slightly greater than zero, unless some day I win what is essentially the lottery. So why write? Because when the words come it is magic. And every once in a while I hear from a reader that something I wrote touched them, and it just don’t get better than that.

Gordon Bunker