There is nothing beautiful that does not become more so when shared.
Sure, there are things best not shared (toothbrushes, restroom habits, the flu), but when it comes to joy, giving begets more. Vacations are better with someone to share the experience. Books are best when, having read an excellent one, I can find someone with whom to theorize and speculate and dally over all the lurid details. (What's next? Oh, but I don't think she'll put up with him. No, they can't break up in the sequel! I bet that was foreshadowing a new villain who'll destroy the kingdom.)
I walk through a gallery and think how fantastic it is that everyone can enjoy art. I write a story and share it because I think about how much better it will become when others read it, filter it through their minds, and find things within it I never even dreamed of. Or when they find the things I hid that I never expected anyone would see--that's a joy and a satisfaction of a deep and special kind.
Some things I do for myself, and they are sufficient to be shared with only me. Owning my warrior fairies, which are mine and only mine, and decorating my walls with beautiful Nene Thomas prints (that's the one in my hallway right now). They're lovely, and it gives me a little bit of joy each time they catch my eye.
But the moments that are the essence of life--tea tastes best when I can share it with friends. I never drink mead alone, for a bottle split among the ladies of girls' night or shared over a game night feast is richer, sweeter, and more invigorating than a glass sipped in an empty room. Twenty minutes reading a book read with a cat in a lap is more restful than an hour reading in at a deserted desk (even when said cat tries to nibble on the book or push it aside for petting).
Perhaps that may sound odd for someone who is a self-described introvert. Too much social time wears me out, especially in winter when the cold and dark sap my energy like poison saps HP. But it's true, nonetheless, and when I seek to do something, I prefer to do it with someone at my side. I go home afterwards and read a book in feline-accompanied solitude to recover afterwards, because life is richer shared. And if it means that I rest up before and after doing something awesome, and must dole out evening plans carefully when I'm already tired, well, I do very much like to read, so it's a small price to pay.
Because the only thing that smells sweeter than a cup of jasmine tea, is a teapot brewed to share.
Sure, there are things best not shared (toothbrushes, restroom habits, the flu), but when it comes to joy, giving begets more. Vacations are better with someone to share the experience. Books are best when, having read an excellent one, I can find someone with whom to theorize and speculate and dally over all the lurid details. (What's next? Oh, but I don't think she'll put up with him. No, they can't break up in the sequel! I bet that was foreshadowing a new villain who'll destroy the kingdom.)
I walk through a gallery and think how fantastic it is that everyone can enjoy art. I write a story and share it because I think about how much better it will become when others read it, filter it through their minds, and find things within it I never even dreamed of. Or when they find the things I hid that I never expected anyone would see--that's a joy and a satisfaction of a deep and special kind.
Some things I do for myself, and they are sufficient to be shared with only me. Owning my warrior fairies, which are mine and only mine, and decorating my walls with beautiful Nene Thomas prints (that's the one in my hallway right now). They're lovely, and it gives me a little bit of joy each time they catch my eye.
But the moments that are the essence of life--tea tastes best when I can share it with friends. I never drink mead alone, for a bottle split among the ladies of girls' night or shared over a game night feast is richer, sweeter, and more invigorating than a glass sipped in an empty room. Twenty minutes reading a book read with a cat in a lap is more restful than an hour reading in at a deserted desk (even when said cat tries to nibble on the book or push it aside for petting).
Perhaps that may sound odd for someone who is a self-described introvert. Too much social time wears me out, especially in winter when the cold and dark sap my energy like poison saps HP. But it's true, nonetheless, and when I seek to do something, I prefer to do it with someone at my side. I go home afterwards and read a book in feline-accompanied solitude to recover afterwards, because life is richer shared. And if it means that I rest up before and after doing something awesome, and must dole out evening plans carefully when I'm already tired, well, I do very much like to read, so it's a small price to pay.
Because the only thing that smells sweeter than a cup of jasmine tea, is a teapot brewed to share.
Sharing is the most anxious part of the process for me. Until I actually do it, then I go "Oh, that wasn't so bad. In fact, that was kind of awesome. I should do that again."
ReplyDeleteThen I promptly go back into the anxiety/reward cycle. :P
Lol, I understand! It's one of the things that drives me... but when I actually get that point, I'm always terrified!
DeleteI read in your posts you were once a new blogger/writer too. I have been scribbling things down for a long time now, but now I am trying to find some focus as it pertains to my writing. I started a blog last month and It has been quite a release as well as a frustration. I plan to look through some of your archives to examine how someone else approached this process. I have done some research on my own but I have not come across writing from this particular perspective.
ReplyDeleteGood luck! Mostly it's been trial and error, for me: I learn as I go. :D So I hope you see something useful that helps you avoid some of my mistakes!
Delete