Which I am not, and I think that I am not supposed to care, but I do care, and this is a source of unhappiness in my life. Why do I care? Why do I feel like I have to do something that 'matters'. This is why I have Sue's little poem up in the right corner of my blog - I'm aiming for that... pleasure in the process and not the result...
Knocking on Hidden Doors
Gourmet cooks can swallow a spoonful
of sauce, then spout the list of ingredients.
Talented musicians listen to a piece once,
then play it back note-for-note.
Acclaimed poets are able to read an offering
for the first time and see how much better
it would have been, if only you had not failed
to put a comma in the third stanza.
Practiced painters absorb the view
from the top of Mt. Shasta, across a series
of varied blue-green hills, and are able to blend
the unique color required to paint each one.
I, on the other hand, can run a microwave,
play chopsticks , read a poem, and paint
by number. If I have a gift, it remains safely
hidden, biding it’s time, as my time runs out.