Going a long time without putting thoughts into words keeps the mind from relaxing, reorganizing. Focusing.
Writing is therapy. Everyone knows that.
Writing fiction is the therapy of therapies, because now one is both creator and spectator.
There are other anxiety triggers, of course. Running late for a meeting, lack of sleep, lack of caffeine. Lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Those get resolved faster.
The human ability to love is infinite. By far, love is the purest form of energy. Its nemesis, indifference, gets in the way but will focus on love.
We want to help. It’s in our nature. We want to jump in when we see hurt, despair. Do everything we can to bring about peace, joy.
The question is: are we always helping?
Is pulling someone away from the edge of the cliff always a good idea? Obviously, the answer is yes for family and friends.
What about strangers?
In the picture above, circulating on social media, the man was about to jump off a bridge in London when random strangers began talking him out of it. They wrapped their arms around him and worked to secure him until they could get the man back to safety.
We see that he is reaching out to them, meaning he wants their help and support. Maybe that is what he needed all along, someone to care enough to save him from his demons.
I looked at the picture for a long time. I see the man’s emotions. I see the desperation almost transferring from him to the helpers. How they wrap their arms around him, around his legs. They will not let go of this man, no matter what. It’s as if their lives depend on saving him now, not only his.
Will he try to jump again? Impossible to know, but he’s safe for now.
Hard work lies ahead for the man himself, and if true to their wanting to help, for those who saved him. In some way, he is now their responsibility.
I have the softest spot for people who do everything in their power to help others. Not just family, but perfect strangers. More so for those who do it quietly, without attention-grabbing headlines.
It’s hard not to get emotional studying the above image carefully, isn’t it?
Humanity at its finest. We use the phrase a lot, but it truly applies in this case.
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Image: Nigel Howard
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What would a Seven Falls Merlot be without the poetry it tells?
How about the stories of a 19 Crimes Red?
Imagine the story behind the grapes sourced across Eastern Australia, aged in American oak, that came to be known as 19 Crimes Red. I wouldn’t want to know.
Wine comes with stories.
How would the writers of old have found their words without wine as inspiration? Impossible.
So, today, when WordPress asked: what is your favorite drink?
I say: it all depends.
I don’t really have favorites in the sense of fandom. I like certain things more than others, but even that’s not set in stone.
Taste changes.
I could like water – it’s healthy, necessary, all around yet in short supply. But that’s expected. Who doesn’t like water? It’s a necessity, if not to drink to cook with. It’s in our lives, like it or not. An all-around presence.
If I were to have a favorite drink, that would be wine. Because wine tells stories. Trues stories. Wine doesn’t allow for lies.
In vino veritas.
Wine is artwork that can be admired. Not touched. Although that’s hard to imagine. As Luis Fernando Olaverri said: Wine is the only artwork you can drink. Responsibly, I hope. Always responsibly.
Here’s to you, friends. What is your favorite drink?
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We know a lot, for sure, yet know so little. We could live ten lives and barely scratch the surface of what there is to know.
We know what’s in our immediate circle, and a little more. Maybe a lot more, but even that’s not much. At least not much from my perspective as I always find things I should’ve known.
We know some things about the world. Our profession. Our family. We experience the world through our senses. Memorized A, B, C.
There are things floating outside our focus, things we should know but don’t… because … life.
On occasion we marvel at our ignorance. How is it that everyone knows things I don’t? In a busy life where everything is moving at warp speed, we let some things go.
Me?
I didn’t know there is a piece of land in L.A. called Sunken City. A place that’s been sinking into the ocean for years. Bit by bit.
Didn’t know there is a homeless underground network of poet vagabonds. Of storytellers and musicians. Not until I started writing, I did not know.
But stories teach us about the world. About people and feelings. They break open secrets.
We like secrets, don’t we? Well, quietly we do. Secrets tell us we’re not alone; someone trusted us with their story. With someone else’s story.
Stories are secrets – forbidden yet accessible.
My upcoming novel is about … well, you guessed it, secrets. Between lovers, friends, family. It’s about mysteries that can hurt, kill, pull people apart. Or bring them together.
We all have secrets. Psychology says we need them. They give us freedom. Power. Control. Something to hide behind.
We love stories because they keep no secrets. Not from us.
~ ~ Have you ever been surprised to learn something everyone seemed to know?
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Photo cr: Pixabay, images
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Silvia Writes 