For some time I’ve thought about gifts. Now I don’t mean the jewelry I might lust after when I ogle the wares at the mall. Sure, it’s about giving, and it’s equally about receiving, but until recently it’s been a conundrum. Yet it’s no riddle, although for some time that’s how it appeared, and it’s simply this: my worth will be wasted without the giving. I hazard to say, so will yours…. I’d like to explain.
I have written for some years. I have struggled on to believe in myself as an author, even when the current seemed it would suck me under, oblivious to anyone save curious acquaintances and hopeful family. For someone who has been, or is in this position, you’ll know exactly what I’m saying. It didn’t matter that I thought I had something worth listening to, until I was accepted by a publisher. But that’s not the real crux of what I’m getting at.
Are you a songwriter? An artist? A poet? There’s great satisfaction in the therapy of honing our crafts; that’s experience talking… I’m very humbled that I’ll soon find myself in the position to share my stories with friends I will never meet, and it has struck me more forcefully as time advances that it is not so much about the satisfaction I will find in the printing, but rather about what I have given.
And of what worth is a book that sits unread? Now I’m not talking about a literal book, neccessarily, or even a painting or song, because we are the artworks, and it’s ourselves we need to give. Whether it’s a smile or a kind word or a few minutes to listen, there are ever moving currents that drag us relentessly on, and I don’t know about you, but when I land on the other side of the shore, I’d like to know I swam the best race I could.