In My Reading Life, Pat Conroy speaks of the courage
and insecurities writers face. He also
speaks of the necessity of solitude that I most definitely relate to. Solitude allows me to replenish my soul. Conroy’s words make me want to write.
Have you
ever noticed how much noise there is in our lives? Right now on an otherwise quiet Sunday
morning, our next-door neighbor is mowing his lawn, a single bird is chirping
in a nearby tree. I hear a car engine
racing too fast in a residential neighborhood sounding like a lone car racing
around a track. There is also an
incessant hum or buzz or rush of air surrounding my ears with constant and
close noise. Occasionally, I hear a
train whistle on the tracks along the 91 freeway and a jet as it rides the
invisible sky road to Orange County airport.
This is why our trips to Montana are so glorious. It’s actually quiet there and while there is
noise, it’s the racket of a leaf falling from a tree, the breeze pushing it
away from its home. It’s the soft
background babble of the creek next to our campsite; kids playing catch in the
meadow near enough to be seen but not so close as to interrupt my mental
peace. Sometimes, hiking a trail, we’ll
stop—“Sh. Do you hear that? It’s silence.” It’s so quiet it refreshes my ears. It’s so free of cement, traffic, people that
my eyes relax and soak up the greens, browns, blues, surprises of reds and
yellows.
I want to
write. I want solitude in which to do
it. I want nature outside my cabin
window inviting my words from their hiding places. I want my pencil always sharp so when words
become clear, my pencil can cut them and weave them into something that is
meaningful. I want to write so that I
can leave a part of myself behind when God calls me home. I want my children and grandchildren and
great-grandchildren to know me as a writer.
To know who I was in words only I can express.
