At the Foothills
Feb
18
Musings | art of becoming, Feelings, journey
Not too long ago I had the crazy idea that I wanted to write a book. Life seemed to get in the way. Life had to get “in the way” to show me that all things require a measure of balance. Working full tilt may present a rush, but not a body of work others would enjoy reading. The long winded diatribes or letters fashioned in earlier months were mainly for my benefit. So be it, most blogs these days seem to be just that.
While I do not pretend to fully appreciate the gravity of the craft I enter, I do appreciate the context in which I live. To that end I will continue writing short bi weekly articles on the art of becoming. This is a song people seem to identify with. Out of no where 1200 plus people read my new years article in three days time. It sums up what most people believe they are already doing. How many times can you read about becoming. About as many times as you can read about love, daily living, anger, fear, injustice and so on. Emotion is a big part of our day. Recognizing it is and sharing those feelings is what makes us relevant to those we live with.
The art of becoming is a humble journey, not an epic one you see in the movies. The latter make for great cinema, the former makes for great conversation. I hope you have many of the former.
Comments and feedback on the text below is welcome. Written to honour of the day we all toil.
I belong at the foothills.
I do not belong on top of the mountain.
Nor do I need to climb lofty heights.
The search for self starts at home.
It does not wait for the perfect day.
Where I am is perfectly fine.
This is where I asked to be indefinitely.
Here I will do my best to create a
quiet life of humble beginnings.
Inside this life is a gentle structure,
and freedom within just to become.
This is the true art form of life.
A framework of becoming.
Everything else is secondary.
My sliver of life will never be ideal.
It will take shape as it needs to be.
I will stay the course and ride it out.
Like a hollow log, my day fills itself
with folly, foibles and cat fur.
Just the same, it asks me to remain.
Stay calm, cool and collected.
Does the mundane define me?
Only my thinking does.
What I do is significant.
I will stay the course.
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