The little yellow canary stopped singing, the melody falling off into silence.
I reached out and crushed the wooden bird in my hand, the pieces falling to my feet, dotting the floor with tiny yellow splinters. For what good is a warning system that fails to warn? Long before the brilliant tones stopped, I felt the noxious gas take affect, intoxicating my heart, telling me it was time to return.
Like a marathoner who is uncomfortable taking a necessary break after a grueling race, one which they have prepared and trained for over the course of months, I have been uncomfortable listening to the canary sing that all was right while I sat to the side.
I've recently been rereading Jane Eyre and a particular passage struck me. Mr. Rochester is examining Jane's sketches and watercolours.
"Were you happy when you painted these pictures?" asked Mr. Rochester presently.
"I was absorbed, sir - yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known."
(Skipping down a few sentences Rochester asks...)
"Are you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?"
"Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork; in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realize."
Does a painter who fails to paint a masterpiece stop painting? Does a marathoner who fails to come in first stop running?
Before you get a funny idea, I should mention that I did receive some feedback on the latest version and it was positive. I am still waiting for the last reader to weigh in - but, regardless of the outcome, I know my stories are not perfect. However, does that withdraw the pleasure I receive from writing them?
Let's return to the canary. I knew before it was time to return, that, in short, it was time to return to my favorite past time. I had stayed away fairly well. I only cheated twice or so. Alright maybe a few more times that that. What is this - the Spanish inquisition? I returned when I needed to (to fix little fixes or to add little additions) but not when I wanted to - certainly not to the degree that has become my life-blood of a 'keen pleasure'.
Yesterday I could no longer endure the silence of the canary. Yesterday, I admitted that, like the artist who must experiment and create in order to feel whole, I needed to allow myself back in the realm. A marathoner must take to the road again and I must write, even if what I can create does not entirely match what I set out to create.
Since I crushed the bird that was too late in warning me, well after the emotional ton of bricks had fallen on me, I will let a verse of Mr. Rochester's song to Jane end this post.
"I dangers dared, I hindrance scorned,
I omens did defy;
Whatever menaced, harassed, warned
I passed impetuous by."
