in search of magic

doggieYesterday I bought a book because it told me I’m brave. I spent money I don’t have on a book I don’t need because it insinuated I’m intrepid. For doing what I do — writing.

Is that brave? No, it’s irresponsible. Or reckless, which is in the brave ballpark, I suppose, if you stretch the definition far enough. But I’m not showing courage; I’m running headlong toward happier, more welcoming places. I’m creating an alternate world because this one sucks at the moment.

My dog, my grand companion, is quickly failing. He’s 15, no longer sturdy and willful, but hobbled and timid. He struggles to be the vigorous little dude he once was, fighting against the indignities of legs and eyesight weakened by age. He’s the brave one, not me. My knees buckle at the thought of losing him. I’m a mess, a scared, heart-broken, weepy mess.


So I bought the book; I need to believe I can surmount this. I could’ve bought City on Fire, the one with all the hoopla surrounding its publication, as a distraction. Or Mencken’s Chrestomathy. But I didn’t, I bought what could rightly be called a self-help book. I hate self-help books. I like to think of myself as capable and self-sufficient, so let’s call it a handbook.

It’s entitled Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert. Magic is what I’m seeking, you know, something to make my sweet, beloved old dog thrive again. Or to find the courage to let him go, accept that it’s time. I’m just not ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Not in this lifetime.

copyright © 2015 little ittys

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