An observer would have noted the moment of instantaneous recognition between the two of us. Between the mutual tears, he told me a story of my father I had not heard before..
I was so wrong. I regret my lack of understanding and effort in beginning on the ‘open roads’. They were my roads. And yes, others were on the same road. They too began where I began, travelling, lookinf for their one road. All of our roads began as one.
I would write a beautiful book, a beautiful story… But it may not be pretty….
A creative path might not be the smooth ease of calm, expressive seas nor the decorated, celebrated angst of artistry…