Saturday, July 16, 2011
Ever since I moved to the Eastern Shore I loved to go out into the country to enjoy the peace and quiet of the farm fields and marshlands.
One feature of the marshes that leaves a lingering sadness in my heart is the decaying hulks of houses that, condemned when environmentalists decreed the ground would not perk and that human wastes had to be processed in above-ground tanks that were often far out of the means of the old folks who lived in those dwellings - even though these hardy folks have lived in good health in those same houses for time out of mind.
I always feel such a sadness when I notice a decaying marsh house. I wonder about who lived there, what children played in the yard, and the face of the bride who came there as a new wife full of hope and love. I especially wonder about the hope - the expectation that a life might be full of the goodness God promised.
Writers have such thoughts.
An amazing thing is that sometimes (but not always) when I see one of those old abandoned houses I find my head swimming with a grand new idea for a story or book.
It is as if I have been given what might be called a cosmic assignment to tell that story as best I can.
Writing is a task I can't seem to put down, although I sometimes feel as if I have perhaps timed out like those sad rotting houses sinking into the marsh. And then the dictation starts in my head and I find myself still at the keyboard writing a history that seems to come from the very heart of love.
I hope that you have found your bliss, and that the world talks to you about beauty, hope and love - and if that isn't enough, I hope you keep on the sunny side. Love, Terry