At It Again

Perhaps I have some subconscious addiction to writing. Or, as so well-stated in Hammarskjöld's "Markings": How ridiculous, this need of yours to communicate! Perhaps it is so. I gave myself time to rest from my last blogging endeavor, but now the desire to create afresh has pulled me back in. Life is too short to not do the things that we want to do, the things that give life meaning.

I remind myself of that when I visit the beach (which, being in such close proximity to two now, I have been doing quite frequently). The shores are littered with shells: empty shells, shells that were once home to life, some creation that was alive and interacting with the world. Now all that remains is that rigid outer crust, a nostalgic reminder (to me at least) of the transience of existence. Our culture shies away from thinking about death--yet how can life take direction without an end in mind?

Which leads me to the explanation of my title selection, from Emerson:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

And so I begin again--deliberately, but with a touch of impulsiveness--writing about life and sharing my foibles.