On Twitter, Brian Spaeth set himself the goal of writing 200 words of work in progress each day. It sounds like a good exercise, though in my case there is no novel or other ongoing project that begs attention. A while ago, trying to understand the possibilities in Twitter, I set up a Tweet of exactly 280 characters—the text limit. In practice that was too limiting. Plus, anything you write in Twitter gets buried in layers of other stuff, I haven’t got the hang of it at all.
Here’s a first attempt to say something both personal & universal in exactly 200 words.
I spend part of each day as a nonentity with nary a sense of fleshly existence. I ought to make the most of these moments. They appear at intervals, when I feel drained, or hanker for what I don’t have. I ought to return their blank stare, ask what they have to offer.
It’s become part of a daily ritual, like it or not. You could hate it but that gets you nowhere. This is what happens when you’re old, partly as measured by calendar years but mostly by wear & tear. If you have a range of life-choices, you’re not old yet. After you cross that line, stuff just comes at you. You can only curse or bless.
Rituals vary, but they are the established patterns by which the days, weeks and months pass like the view from a speeding train. Let them all be hallowed. Let me see them as the form of my worship, a custom-made liturgy, founded on generosity, cemented in universal love.
I used to put value on meaning and purpose, perhaps truth too, whatever kind. I don’t think I care too much about those now. Let the young and middle-aged take on their stewardship.
a wayfarer’s notes 