the literary life 9/15/09
When do we start to get it? I was thinking today about how much I've read, witnessed, and reflected on in my own life. Yet each day, when I wake up, I start all over again. Some mornings I can sense the accumulated wisdom of my life whispering to me as I drift through the present. Other times, it's as if I hardly know the world at all, nor my place in it.
I wonder which part of me is wiser: the one that seems to know or the one that feels ignorant. Sometimes I think writing is about arriving at insight. Other times I believe it's about accepting the uncertainty of things: the shifting moods, priorities, and self-definitions.