“We can’t expect the world to get better by itself” (Gwen Ifill).
Yet, we do.
Far too often, I have announced my rhetorical resignation as, “But what I can do?”
As if I were Sisyphus, pushing the boulder to the top of the hill only to have it roll down again. It held no appeal but mine was a quick consideration, readily released.
Years later, I revisited Sisyphus. We were more alike than I wanted to admit. I was missing something in his experience and, therefore, my own.
I believed in “fixing” anyone or anything, especially if I knew the way to stay atop the hill. However, there are as many hills as there are life experiences.
As a writer, my words appear only to disappear in others–every day. A few make an initial appearance only to roll right into a familiar gathering of consonants and vowels until one word after another becomes a sentence. One, only one.
But a blinking cursor always wants more, the life experience of up and down. Like Sisyphus but not, intersecting with Camus but staying separate. And somewhere in all those words is joy, always.
It’s not that I write. That’s just my life experience. I trust in my labor, knowing my joy emerges from my effort, not its outcome. Not knowing what to do may be what I do best. Joy.
Every dawn is destined for sunset yet there are so many hours in between. So much life, up the hill or down, perhaps a pause at the top for “maximum leverage”:
…the result of commitment,
of daily persistence,
of gradual and insane
and apparently useless
effort over time.
When it works,
it merely looks
like we had good timing.
I might feel the fool but who knows better every sunrise and sunset.
What the hell. Go for it.