Tuesday 02 June 2015
I woke this morning knowing the most important thing I had to do for the day was breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The simplicity of doing that allows all the rest of the day, whatever it becomes, to follow. A hard thing to remember—breathing. Easily lost in the hurly-burly of existence.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Problems from an old wound are escalating. Problems that take my focus away from basic necessities, such as breathing. From life in general. They do their best to dictate my flow, the path I follow, to divert it to one of least resistance. When I remember to breathe, I have the strength to push back. To claim authorship of my life.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I am a writer and a painter because I write and paint. I am not sure, at this point in life which I find to be more important. Maybe, if I breathe long enough, the answer will come. Meanwhile, I patiently await a call from Dr. Glenn D. Lowry, high mucky-muck of MOMA, telling me he has created wall space in one of his galleries specifically for my droppings. The masterpiece I am currently creating is titled Mona Sigurd. Take that for what you will. It is time I be recognized for the modern day Van Gogh I am, or for the Pollock I am not, but wish to be.
Breathe in. breathe out.
Sigh.
I have lived most of my life alone, though in the company of others. It is possible to live as a recluse in crowded spaces. To live on thoughts as though they are the food of life. To graze pastures of the mind. But at some point, one becomes lonely. Even the hardcore. It happened to me, so, almost fourteen years ago, I married. Now, it is impossible to imagine aloneness amidst the overwhelming love from somebody who helps me breathe. Helps me machete my way through the impossible jungle to my front. Almost fourteen years.
Breathe in deep. Breathe out.
Life before her was a prelude. A nagging time spent sitting in a hard-backed seat, lungs clenched, before the curtain opens. She has been away, but is back with me now. After eight nagging weeks of intermission, the aria has begun again, and in an easy way—I breathe in and breathe out the simplicity of the day.
As always,
Sig
To read more letters, click The Path!
One Year of Letters 