September 25: Uncramped, My Mojo, a Little Cold Light

Santiago thinks about the fish swimming below him . . . 

Once in the afternoon the line started to rise again. But the fish only continued to swim at a slightly higher level. The sun was on the old man's left arm and shoulder and on his back. So he knew the fish had turned east of north.

Now that he had seen him once, he could picture the fish swimming in the water with his purple pectoral fins set wide as wings and the great erect tail slicing through the dark. I wonder how much he sees at that depth, the old man thought. His eye is huge and a horse, with much less eye, can see in the dark. Once I could see quite well in the dark. Not in the absolute dark. But almost as a cat sees.

The sun and his steady movement of his fingers had uncramped his left hand now completely and he began to shift more of the strain to it and he shrugged the muscles of his back to shift the hurt of the cord a little.

The old man has been fishing all his long life.  It is second nature to him.  Even when his hand is cramping and the fishing line is digging into his sore shoulders, Santiago keeps fishing.  Because that's who he is.

Last night, I published my first blog post in a long time.  As I described yesterday, I've been struggling, unable to write, for a while.  This morning, as I prepare to go into rehearsal for a show I'm in tonight, I feel like my writing muscles are uncramping, and I'm not fighting with my lines so much.  In fact, I wrote these first two paragraphs in less than a minute.  Perhaps I am finally getting my mojo back a little.

I am a writer.  Words are how I understand the world.  When I am joyful, I write about it.  When I am in despair, I write about it.  When I am hungry, I eat some chocolate, and then I write about the chocolate.  That is how I mediate my experiences, and I've been doing it for a very long time.  Some people take pictures and post them on Facebook.  I compose poems and blog posts and essays and stories.

It feels good to be friends with language again.  These last 30 or so days, I was lucky if I could write two words in my journal without descending into an existential crisis.  Now, here I am, writing my second blog post in less than twelve hours.  And my head seems clearer, as if, just by sitting with my laptop, tapping on the keyboard, I've opened the windows in the attic of my head, blown away the cobwebs, let a little cold light shine in.

Thanks to all my faithful disciples--family and friends--for putting up with this tired, sad saint.

Saint Marty's blessing today:  words.