A Brief Meditation on Progress
My guitars sit in the corner of my room, collecting cobwebs and withering in neglect. My musical mind is dusty like the top of a bookcase. The words in a book only produce lightning if our brain serves as a copper conductor. The strings of a guitar only produce electricity if our fingers translate rosy connections & fleeting sparks.
We love to read captivating narratives, listen to delicate ballads, and admire the gradients of enchanting paintings. We love the enraptured weightlessness of a gripping movie and the mind numbing echo of a pulsing sunset, but we rarely consider the inordinate toil and sacrifice it takes to produce such creations of beauty.
I’m sitting here this morning, slapping myself, as I remember that to accomplish our lofty goals of the clouds, we must take care to watch our feet on the ground. This is all a long winded and purple way of reiterating a timeless aphorism: Rome wasn’t built in a day. Find a true direction, step firmly, and watch the flowers grow.
