Archaic

It's raining and quite chilly outside this morning. Although 51degrees isn't cold to some people, it's cold enough for me. The fortunate thing is I'm not outside working in it and as of lately, I've not been required to do so. Not much, anyway.

I can't forget the endless number of days my professions over the years have required me to be out in it from the time I was very young. As a carpenter or grinding metal in my first years of college. The Marines, working offshore, DHW, and more, they all have been outdoor jobs, exposed to the elements, whatever they were. At the time I thought about when, if ever, I would have a vocation that would allow me to be sheltered from the weather, but those days never seemed to come. 

But they have come. Now that I'm safe indoors I am reminded that on all those countless days I was outdoors, experiencing the sunlight, the coolness of the wind blowing through my sweat drenched hair, the fragrance of fresh cut grass, the sound of trees rustling in the wind, the smell of the rain and the bitterness of its cold on my skin. Ironically enough, even though at the time I disliked the physical labor, I never felt so much alive as when I was struggling in that way. When the day was through, I felt a sense of satisfying accomplishment and the hot meal and cleanliness relished after a good shower. I felt it was well deserved and I am a better man because of it.

Maybe that is why, so often, every day in fact, I choose to write with pen and paper. It's the physical act of writing with my hand, holding a pen to paper that brings me satisfaction. The ability to mentally arrange lines of ink on a page in a way that makes sense to whoever reads them or recognizes the artwork is something relegated only to humans. That sensory perception is why I use thick, hardback dictionaries and thesauruses in lieu of smart devises. The mental and physical energy it takes to thumb through the pages to find what I'm looking for is irreplaceable. The feel of the paper in my hand, the weight of the book and the aroma of the old pages is therapeutic. It's un-replicatable. 

It's in every heart of men to seek and discover that for which he is looking. It's a primal urge to actively look for something and work for it rather than have it presented to him effortlessly. To be sure, I use electronic devices but in a fundamental sense, I prefer hardcover and not a day goes by I don't enjoy them.