I think the problem is that one’s work – what one does 8, 12, 14 hours a day - should give one life, meaning, purpose, pride and joy. And right now it really doesn’t. I don’t write very much any more, because my writing comes from something in me that has become smaller and smaller. It comes from some miniscule part of me that twitches with life and brims with the desire to create beautiful things. It is slow, it moves only of its own volition, it loses itself in the deepest shades of meaning, it weeps at the slightest pain, it celebrates the languid and the still. It is in service to no one, it meets no deadlines, it awakens to no shrill alarm, it has no higher or larger purpose than the mere desire to create something that just is. In the leaden gloom I learn to catch the light-splattered leaves drifting slowly, slowly - down. Small points of light - tricks of mind - to last another day.
posted by leah | 2:31 PM
1 Comments:
when one does countless hours of mindless administration, paperwork and random jobs in order to fulfil a greater purpose, the greater purpose does seem a little out of reach, a little out of sight. that's how i feel about my job to come, although i do have the benefit of speaking to lovely patients and being thanked for little things that i do.
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