Good friends and family members know me as a sojourner. I enjoy hopping into my car and driving to areas where nature, whether it be to find and restfully study a school of birds nesting, or summer grasses decayed by winter blowing in the wind, can offer a respite from my writing schedule and life in general. A shame it is for those who don't (or refuse to) recognize beauty and calm in even the most minute time period. Consider yesterday, when a business meeting placed me in central New Jersey, where development and perhaps over-development of strip shopping malls and office complexes have swallowed up open space like a sinkhole. Every so often, as I drove along busy Route 1 and its neighboring roads, I encountered many new developments, many cars, and occasionally a spot where grasses and trees live on, and animals taking advantage of peace quite a distance from the pavement. For example, on Route 1 South in the North Brunswick area, some good acreage of farm covered in remaining snow revealed no farm animals, but a host of geese assumed temporary residence, waddling slowly upon the cold ground, pecking at the earth with their beaks. Double-taking as I drove, careful not to drive off the road or into another vehicle, I marveled at a sight many (including me) see often but take for granted. I also thought to myself that eventually, perhaps, this land as well may succumb to development, and that the geese will one day pass on, not knowing the temporary joy delivered to many passersby who took time to enjoy the scene. A rejoining thought is how nature, in this the most densely populated state in the United States, lives side-by-side with construction, still reigning in even the tiniest way. Yes, the Garden State has its nature areas where wildlife and flora can be viewed in their natural habitats, well protected from the variety of activity nearby. But then there's that tiny bush along the Garden State Parkway, the tiny, budding flower at the edge of a front yard, the raccoon climbing a tree on Route 202, the nature the causes momentary, special pleasure during a busy day. Steve
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Often when I am attending an event of some sort, my eyes and mind wander, intent on pondering details of something (not someone) nearby. Sometimes it takes away from the benefit of my attendance and the good the event may bring me, or sometimes further elaborates or is part of the happening itself.
Last night, as my wife and I attended a weekly service at a local parish church, one that calls for concentration and understanding of its concept regarding belief and faith, we sat a few pews behind a grand white pillar. I have many times sat in this same seat, but never noticed the artwork carved in the pillar, in this case a tiny cross and what appeared to be a vase overflowing its brim with fruit. I said to myself, "That's amazing. Someone -- an artist, sculpture, mason -- dreamt that, made that." I then looked at a few neighboring pillars, and they were home to the same décor, equivalent in size and style to the one in front of me. And although it did for a few moments "remove" me from the activity around me, it concurrently wrapped its arms around me, cementing my knowledge that all good -- the service, the pillar, the artwork -- are all found there, in the church. It's the same with reading. Sometimes during a library or bookstore visit, a book cover or dust jacket preview will lure me to check out or buy a book, I seeking to be diligent in not only starting but finishing the reading of it. But there are those times when a sentence, an entire chapter perhaps, moves me with such eloquence or importance that I'll read it again and again, thinking, "A mind dreamt this up" or "Someone has lived this." I'll find it amazing that someone with "heart" -- yes, a beating one but also one with emotion and passion -- was able to get that down on paper with feeling, with such talent. Nature walks also lend to creative romance, and reveal the talent of our Creator. I have on warm days walked through arboretums, much grandeur and green with lawn and trees, eventually finding a flower beds of different colors. Yes, they may be admired from a distance, but closer inspection by the eye reveals budding activity or full flora atop its stem that takes breath away, maybe even causing one albeit briefly to forget the "vast expanse" of arboretum in lieu of the tiny art. Silence is made for times like these, and so is pausing and admiration. Steve When you've been a freelance writer as long as I have, you amass quite a collection of article clippings and tear sheets that fill a file cabinet -- or maybe two, or three.
In almost 22 years in my field, I have filled a cabinet with op-ed pieces in addition to articles about bridal, business, hospitality, history, personal profiles, travel, and much more. Add to that book reviews, corporate copywriting pieces including content and newsletters, and I'd have an issue finding something specific if I weren't organized. And, I'm not always organized. Recently I began working on a piece of fiction -- actually it's part memoir with some "make believe" added -- and, as I worked on it, I recalled that I had in the latter part of 2017 submitted a short story of mine which in the past had met with rejection at a few literary magazines, one where an editor remarked that "your writing has merit." I followed up with the recent online magazine who declared they are behind and my submission was still being considered. The woman apologized for the delay, and I readily accepted the apology. I was glad the story was still "in play." Buttressed by that bit of positivity, I dug internally back into old files, searching for other stories that I've authored which have met with rejection, and now needed dust blown off the covers. Two stories that I found, both with a romantic tone, I thought had and still have worth. Reading both, I was wowed by the word usage, both the dialogue and how everything "moved." Fiction writers, can you relate? So, during these busy times with my freelance writing business, I'm stepping back, taking a breath, and reading creative works from my past, and not only using them as a reprieve, but reading them analytically to see if now if I should pitch them, again. Truth be told, though, the reading of these works, or better yet uncovering a bit of my past writing life -- the stuff you write or read, you need, when you just have to break away from the biz end so (as a fellow freelancer put it) you don't die -- may be all the reward I need. Steve The calm after the storm.
As I look out the basement library window, I see bright sunshine. What a difference compared to Friday's Nor'easter. A view out this same window yesterday yielded driving snow and freezing rain, accompanied by howling winds. The above being said, still the neighborhood birds gathered in the corner bush, awaiting food from inside our warm home. I did my duty -- or what I've made my duty -- by feeding them, walking upon the snow-covered, wet earth to deliver their food. It's a process I follow 2 or 3 times a day, because they rely on me. And, to an extent, I also rely on them. It makes me happy when I see them waiting for me, singing as I approach the feeder, and pecking away as I retreat to my deck. It's a wonderful respite from my freelancing work. The above "warm" inside our house turned to "chilly" after 5:00 PM Friday as many in the area lost power for over 10 hours. When it finally came back on at 3:30 AM this morning, I arose and made sure all in the house was in good operating order and, since I was awake, up and around, decided to fill the birdfeeder early, therefore enabling me to go back to sleep, and they provided a "meal" following their slumber. I walked through the dark, side yard, and it was much colder than I thought. As I poured fresh water into the birdbath, I pondered that if anyone saw me, driving by or just peeking from a nearby window, what they would think or must be thinking, seeing me outside braving the chill at such an early hour, obviously attending to something along the side of our home. I at that moment recalled a story that I have often heard about a man walking along a shoreline who, seeing a starfish far away from the waves, picks it up and tosses it towards the sea, then watches it gathered in by the surf and returned "home." When questioned about it by a passerby, who said (not verbatim) that "...it's just one starfish, what does it matter?" The man responds calmly, "True, but it matters that THAT starfish." So, really, it matters to these little birds, and the occasional red cardinal I see sitting on the barren branches, always waiting for me. And it matters to me, too; it's part of my love amidst my acreage of Heaven. No matter the hour. Steve |
Steve Sears is a New Jersey based freelance writer
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