"The writer in me said, This is good material. Writers, like bears, will feed on just about anything." Philip Simmons
I smiled when I read these words in Simmons' book "Learning To Fall". True that, man! I mean, I don't pretend to be in the same league as Phil, God rest his soul, but I have written enough to recognize the sage wisdom in his words. I have written enough that I think of myself as a writer.. of sorts. Sometimes I'm an intermittent writer, an occasional writer. There are long dry spells. Times when I don't feel like I have anything to say. According to the writing books I have read and the writing seminar lecturers to whom I have listened, those are the times to exercise discipline, grit your teeth, place yourself in solitary confinement and push through the block.
That's what Phil Simmons did. His was more than a "block". He was diagnosed with ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease, at age thirty-five and told he had less than five years to live. As a young husband and father and at the start of a promising literary career, he suddenly had to learn the art of dying. He did so by retreating to his writing shed on an old farm in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He processed his thoughts, his suffering, his spirituality, his profound disappointment at his impending death and his fear of the unknown by writing about them. And he shared these truths with us.
Simmons writes about finding the courage to engage Life fully in spite of pain, loss and suffering. His writing is tight and raw and true. He is a master of the crafts, both the craft of writing and the craft of living a courageous life. I wish I had known to stop by and talk with him, to tell him how much I admired his work. He lived only hours from our home in Maine. But I didn't discover his book until last week at the Saint Simons Island, Georgia library. And he died in 2002. 2002...God knows I was desperately seeking spiritual wisdom in those days. I would have so valued his unique perspective.
In the Foreword of Learning To Fall, Simmons writes,"I write as a man who has been given an extraordinary chance to practice consciously the art of living and dying." And these words struck me. Isn't this the same extraordinary opportunity, regardless of the situations of our individual lives, that is available to each of us? Perhaps the difference between Phil and the majority of human beings is that he stood at the edge and knew he was not going to be allowed to back away from it. Contemplating ones mortality is most often avoided at all costs. Strange, because our mortality along with our birth, is perhaps the most common human experience we all share... or avoid sharing.
Strange is the operant word. We human beings are a very strange species, indeed. "Odd, but loveable" my wife says... usually speaking of me.
And so, I sit in my old writers shack, on a marsh, near a beach, on an island, off the coast of Georgia and, oddly, like a bear, look for things to feed upon, for inspiration, for some good material.
We are all standing on that edge. Most of us just don't dare to look, don't care to know. And we risk missing that "extraordinary chance to practice consciously the art of living and dying."
Thanks for the inspiration Phil.
I smiled when I read these words in Simmons' book "Learning To Fall". True that, man! I mean, I don't pretend to be in the same league as Phil, God rest his soul, but I have written enough to recognize the sage wisdom in his words. I have written enough that I think of myself as a writer.. of sorts. Sometimes I'm an intermittent writer, an occasional writer. There are long dry spells. Times when I don't feel like I have anything to say. According to the writing books I have read and the writing seminar lecturers to whom I have listened, those are the times to exercise discipline, grit your teeth, place yourself in solitary confinement and push through the block.
That's what Phil Simmons did. His was more than a "block". He was diagnosed with ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease, at age thirty-five and told he had less than five years to live. As a young husband and father and at the start of a promising literary career, he suddenly had to learn the art of dying. He did so by retreating to his writing shed on an old farm in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He processed his thoughts, his suffering, his spirituality, his profound disappointment at his impending death and his fear of the unknown by writing about them. And he shared these truths with us.
Simmons writes about finding the courage to engage Life fully in spite of pain, loss and suffering. His writing is tight and raw and true. He is a master of the crafts, both the craft of writing and the craft of living a courageous life. I wish I had known to stop by and talk with him, to tell him how much I admired his work. He lived only hours from our home in Maine. But I didn't discover his book until last week at the Saint Simons Island, Georgia library. And he died in 2002. 2002...God knows I was desperately seeking spiritual wisdom in those days. I would have so valued his unique perspective.
In the Foreword of Learning To Fall, Simmons writes,"I write as a man who has been given an extraordinary chance to practice consciously the art of living and dying." And these words struck me. Isn't this the same extraordinary opportunity, regardless of the situations of our individual lives, that is available to each of us? Perhaps the difference between Phil and the majority of human beings is that he stood at the edge and knew he was not going to be allowed to back away from it. Contemplating ones mortality is most often avoided at all costs. Strange, because our mortality along with our birth, is perhaps the most common human experience we all share... or avoid sharing.
Strange is the operant word. We human beings are a very strange species, indeed. "Odd, but loveable" my wife says... usually speaking of me.
And so, I sit in my old writers shack, on a marsh, near a beach, on an island, off the coast of Georgia and, oddly, like a bear, look for things to feed upon, for inspiration, for some good material.
We are all standing on that edge. Most of us just don't dare to look, don't care to know. And we risk missing that "extraordinary chance to practice consciously the art of living and dying."
Thanks for the inspiration Phil.
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