Hold the Morning Like It Was a Plow

Tomorrow and maybe ... same thing, just spelled differently. I was thinking of favorite lyrics or phrases today. "One day when the weather is warm, I'll wake up on a hill and hold the morning like it was a plow and cut myself a row...." is one of my all-time favorites. It is from Joe Henry's Kindness of the World. Of course, I could fill up a notebook with favorites from Dylan. Anna Nalick is good, too. "Driving away from the wreck of the day, and I'm thinking 'bout calling on Jesus - 'cause love doesn't hurt so I know I'm not falling in love, I'm just falling to pieces." Then there's Matthew Ryan: "Now it occurs to me like blinds undrawn or a bullet from a shotgun that she knew long ago what it meant to feel irrelevant." I am a sucker for good songwriting. I enjoy a good groove, too, but someone who can craft a great lyric and support it perfectly with musical atmosphere, delivery ... cool.

Artists. I have fancied myself such for much of my life. I sit here, though, and look around me. The question hits us all at some point or other: is this what it's about? I am way too analytical, way too much a thinker. I have been trying not to think. That's funny, really. Seriously, though, I long for that peaceful balance between thinking and just breathing. A place in this world, in this life, where I am not burning up with desires I cannot even define. Road-hogged by far too many ideas and phrases and dreams, I dart and sometimes crash and sometimes shuffle from project to project. Priorities shift, not with the wind, but close to as often. Focus. No more than two or three projects at a time. Finish one before adding another. Take a break and stop thinking - even if it's just for five minutes. My father is peaceful, now. He only keeps one or two things going at once. He seems bored though. All - the - time. I can't endure boredom. Contentment? Maybe.