You’ve heard from me that “once in a while, I do the right thing.” Something occurred, this week, that provoked me to think about some of those things that I’ve done and really think they were the right thing.
I receive lunch every weekday, Monday through Friday, from Meals on Wheels. Each day, a different driver delivers my meal. Usually, the driver for each day is the same person each week. A man (let’s call him JW) delivers my Thursday meals. Of course, being somewhat (somewhat??) loquacious, I talk with the persons kind enough to deliver my meals. Talking with JW was no different.
It turns out that JW is a writer. Or, at least, he has been a writer, but his life seems to have made him curtail his writing. He loved being a writer. When I heard that he had stopped writing, it was like waving a “red flag in front of a bull.” I began encouraging him to resume his writing – strongly encouraging him.
He assured me that he just didn’t have time. He had many things that interfered with taking time to write. Reason after reason. And, I kept saying he should take fifteen or fewer minutes a day. Still he didn’t have time. Ten minutes, then. Or, five. Still no time.
I pulled one of my blank thin, soft-cover books from my collection of these books waiting for writing and gave it to him. I told him I was giving him a red one so he could not lose it! And, I wrote a personal note to him on the first page with his name written on the front cover. Maybe, I thought, he would stumble over the book on a regular basis and write something.
That was months ago.
Every week, my first sentence to him was, “Have your written something?” Usually, his answer was that he had not. I know my weekly question was like badgering him, but I thought my question was kind enough; perhaps, it would be a stimulus for him to write. Then, I went to Seattle and Portland with my daughters, returning this past week.
Regular as clockwork, JW delivered my MOW meal on Thursday. Before I could ask him if he had started writing, he said, “I have something to show you.” With that, he pulled out the red book and handed it to me.
Opening it, if found several pages of writing. I asked him if he wanted me to read what he had written or if he wanted to read it to me. He chose to be the reader. Poetry. Many pages of poetry.
He spoke from his heart with deep meaning. He had poured out his heart. His fears. His tears. And, promised that he has more to say.
Once in a while, I do something right.
Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.