Writing Towards Debt

Sometimes I wonder if my writing-life means anything significant, if it's okay that I want to do this, indeed that I DO it on a regular basis. It can feel selfish, this tucking away, this departure from daily tasks and other people to put words down, to set them like goblets, silver, china on a table that— at least temporarily— only I see, feel the wood and smell the fragrance of it.

Then (thank God... or thank you, God) I read something like this from John Leax's Grace is Where I Live...

...I find myself wondering how to pay that debt of gratitude I felt and feel for my life. I think I must begin where I am— sitting in my garden study— setting down these words.... I offer in thanksgiving and praise these nouns: painted lady, red admiral, tiger swallowtail, mourning cloak, cabbage white, monarch.