Keeping the Fire Burning

In the past, when my life has shifted into overdrive, my writing has fallen by the wayside. But up until the last three years, I had not allowed myself to see my writing as an art form, and a talent that I have no business wasting. Now, I need to take a look at how I’m going to relate to my art when I don’t have a lot of time to sit and stew about it. Do I continue writing whatever off-the-wall snippets spring into my mind, and hope once in awhile a gem will pop out? Or do I wait until I have the time to sit down and write "properly?" I don’t think the latter is the solution, because I’m very much afraid I’ll stop writing entirely. And I’ve come to see that my life without writing isn’t...my life.

So, here’s a snippet…

Driving home through the small towns strung along Highway 30, we passed a reader board in front of a gas station proclaiming "Happy Father Days." Yesterday was Father’s Day, wasn’t it? A holiday I no longer have reason to acknowledge. The mortal remains of my dad lie on a hill overlooking a peaceful cemetery on the western outskirts of Eugene. My husband’s dad is also gone. And since we are not parents, Mother’s and Father’s Days have no personal meaning for us (Zookeeper’s Day would be appropriate…the "children" could wrap a bow around a mouse…)

But when it comes to Father’s Day, it’s as if it no longer exists. I have other days reserved for wistful thinking about Dad. I just…don’t go there on Father’s Day.