Color-Man, 19 June, Bari, Italy
Just now I felt not at all like writing. We've just lost over $500 and Sam's passport. That's a blow. We think it was stolen last night as we slept on the train. There are a number of things we did wrong that led to this mess, all of which we've turned over and over in our heads.
We're both in a severe funk. At first I thought this was the end of our magnificent trip, that without a passport we couldn't go on. Thank God for American embassies. Sam should have a new one in the morning, if all goes well. For now we are looking forward.
I felt like not writing because I feel so deflated by our circumstances. We've been bouncing all over Europe with little trouble, and someone just kicked the air out of us.
But what good is a writer who can't write of struggle or heartbreak. Tolkien said no story was complete without them. What if Solzhenitsyn or Dostoevsky or others, who bore up under tremendous struggle and pain, had simply felt too poor to write? What if they'd simply disappeared with their troubles into the forgotten ground? It would be to their loss, and ours.
Our struggle is light in comparison to prison camps and death, but it is important for me to realize this fact: I must write it! Harboring up troubles or simply forgetting them is death to any soul. Pouring words onto a page is a catharsis. It opens floodgates that could prove deadly if dammed up. It teaches you lessons as the writer. For me, it has been an exercise in forgiveness. I've also seen a new dimension of the providence of God. I must trust in it at all times. Can you believe in providence in a lightless tunnel? I must keep asking myself this question, because it brings me back to God.
The trains beside me screech to a hault like the Nazgul in flight. We've been in Bari Centrale for hours now. Sam and I look like broken men. We are, but I think we needed to be.
Drew
We're both in a severe funk. At first I thought this was the end of our magnificent trip, that without a passport we couldn't go on. Thank God for American embassies. Sam should have a new one in the morning, if all goes well. For now we are looking forward.
I felt like not writing because I feel so deflated by our circumstances. We've been bouncing all over Europe with little trouble, and someone just kicked the air out of us.
But what good is a writer who can't write of struggle or heartbreak. Tolkien said no story was complete without them. What if Solzhenitsyn or Dostoevsky or others, who bore up under tremendous struggle and pain, had simply felt too poor to write? What if they'd simply disappeared with their troubles into the forgotten ground? It would be to their loss, and ours.
Our struggle is light in comparison to prison camps and death, but it is important for me to realize this fact: I must write it! Harboring up troubles or simply forgetting them is death to any soul. Pouring words onto a page is a catharsis. It opens floodgates that could prove deadly if dammed up. It teaches you lessons as the writer. For me, it has been an exercise in forgiveness. I've also seen a new dimension of the providence of God. I must trust in it at all times. Can you believe in providence in a lightless tunnel? I must keep asking myself this question, because it brings me back to God.
The trains beside me screech to a hault like the Nazgul in flight. We've been in Bari Centrale for hours now. Sam and I look like broken men. We are, but I think we needed to be.
Drew
posted by Unknown at 12:57 AM
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