Writing

I think writing should be a four letter word. I hate writing. I have never enjoyed writing. I know some people who think of writing as an artistic outlet, similar to drawing, painting or sculpting. I personally see no connection. I see much more similarity, in my experiece of writing, to hurtling china plates agains a brick wall. Demolishing china might actually be more fun, though. At least something happens and it's quick and instant. My writing is more like the tires on a heavy old car attempting to pull out of thick wet red clay mud in the south. It's messy, frustrating and sometimes feels impossible. So what kind of career have I chosen? One which requires constant writing.

I'm good at the face to face portion of my career. Really good. And I'm good at being open to constantly learning and striving. I am not good at writing. And that's not completely true, because when I do write, and struggle and thrash about on paper, it does end up becoming pretty good. But I do not find any pleasure in the process. I find continuous surprise at myself that I have been able to do it once it's done. Any tips for finding pleasure in writing? Any other career ideas (other than the inevitable culinary school)?

Ash Wednesday mug shot

It's been two years since I've posted on here, but tonight seems as good a time as any to post. It's Ash Wednesday and I find significance in receiving ashes on my forehead to start the introspective time of Lent. Wednesdays are very full days each week and I couldn't make it to a church today to get Ashes, but I found two amazing things when I arrived home tonight at 8:30:

1. The Roman Catholic church across the street from my apartment had doors wide open so I could see that it was finishing its spanish language mass. I got in line for ashes and, as my head was pushed back with the weight of his thumb, the priest charged me to "Repent and believe in God."

2. An ice cream truck had the bright idea to park right at the base of the church front steps, so that folks might be able to buy a sweet treat just before giving them up, or go ahead and be the first to break their fast.

Amazing.

Transported

My commute home from the hospital involves a subway switch, among other things. Switching from the L to the G tonight, I just missed my second train. The swarm of passengers exiting that train ascended and flooded the stairwell that I was trying to descend. I pushed my way to the platform just as the train doors closed and the train pulled away from me. The hum from the rush of the crowd and the rumble of the train faded away to reveal a violinist creating the most amazing music! This young guy was playing a haunting Irish tune that I could feel through my body. I've heard of people making a violin "sing," but tonight I really heard it! The song was so beautiful; I felt it in my ears, my heart, my stomach, my liver, like my soul wanted to escape my body. It went on for a good seven minutes. A train came on the opposite track and its rumble blanketed the sound of his violin, but his body continued to rock and sway with the music he made. And when the train was gone again the violin's cries were the only sound in the station. No one chattered over his craft. When the song ended, he paused and then began to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I was so disappointed that he traded one soul aching song for something so pedestrian, until I realized that this song, too, haunted me under his influence. He transformed the Metropolitan Station on the G line into an intimate concert hall and when, in the middle of the third song, my train came and the closing doors and train rumble drowned him out, my eyes were moist. I didn't want to leave him. I hear music in this city every day: in the subways, on the streets, from my neighbors' band practicing on the other side of my wall, and from the iPods people turn up to drown out the city and street performers. But this violin wasn't like the noise of street performers--it was like a new mode of transportation.