We do not wear shackles, yet we are constrained, often by fear.

We are afraid of so many, too many things: All the “what if’s?” that keep us from doing something or trying something new.

Somehow the “what if’s?” resounding in our ears are seldom positive.

But what if we discover joy in things we have never done before? What if we discover a new view? What if we come to understand that beginnings are rarely easy, but continuing despite setbacks and hardship is profoundly rewarding and worth the effort? What if many of our fears are unfounded? What if we felt free?

What if…?

My eyes are open, yet still seeing images of the dreams I left behind.

Often tenuous, I delicately linger with the remnants before they dissolve. Then, the dreamscapes remain beyond my reach, most days.

Dreams are distractions in my waking hours.

They are accustomed to this routine and usually stay away until night when they are free to roam again.

“If I were your father and I had given you the money for all your travels and these were the letters you wrote to me, I’d want my money back.” The one-on-one critique with my writing workshop teacher began with these words. I correctly surmised that he thought my prose was subpar. It wasn’t a surprise.

My fellow writers shared their sentiments too: “Your words are vague.” “I’ve never traveled and from reading this I don’t understand why you do.”  “Your vocabulary alienates me, rather than invites me in.” “Where are you? I want to feel as if I am there with you and I don’t.”

I touched few people recounting my tales of traveling through the world. I found this ironic. I began the blog to not only share my experiences, but to inspire others to travel too.

One woman however called my pieces, “Zen gems.” Another, who had traveled alone throughout the world said, “You describe what it’s like to observe your surroundings. I immediately related to it.” Nonetheless, the consensus was unenthusiastic.

It would have been foolish to ignore any of these comments and I didn’t.

Humbled, but not discouraged, I wrote anew hoping to please a wider audience while remaining true to myself. I included more dialogue and description. I made an effort to bring the reader “there.” My style felt less personal and unique, but the response was more favorable.

I still cherish my “Zen gems.”

And the desire to hone my craft remains.

When I was a child, learning to play the guitar, I was disappointed that I didn’t immediately sound like the musicians I listened to on the radio. It didn’t occur to me at that young age that certain accomplishments can take time.

Many things in life do not come easily. But effort often reaps satisfaction.

Perhaps my recollections have been altered by the years, but I see the moments vividly.

At this time, when I was quite young, my family lived a few stones throw from Coney Island. On evenings when the weather was fine, after dinner, my parents and I would take a stroll.

We would often encounter a huge airedale(especially from my youthful height) and his owner. The dog interested me far more than the conversation. And while my gregarious father and mother exchanged pleasantries I would run my fingers through the dog’s stiff, wiry fur.

Our ultimate destinations rarely wavered. We would continue on to a corner grocer and purchase either fudgesicles or creamsicles(divine ice cream that I’ve only found disappointing in the incarnations today) or a shop that sold Italian ices(not prepackaged, but homemade).

Sated and content we would stroll back home.

These simple, but remarkably pleasurable evenings still resonate.

One of my favorite pastimes was instilled.

If I go to see an exhibition dedicated to design, it’s as if common objects are somehow bestowed with additional elegance and aethetic appeal. But in my daily life, I can forget to take note.

Although it seems that many objects today are created with little concern for design, I suspect that with a bit more diligence they can be found almost anywhere. Stove top grills are a case in point. Manhole covers are another.

At the very least, I have decided to keep an eye out for everyday works of art awaiting to be discovered.

Making art requires thought, time and effort. It is not necessarily easy, sometimes taxing-even difficult, and can wreak havoc with ones ego. But fortunately the pleasures abound.

One of the great advantages of pursuing art is that time is on our side. Our years offer knowledge and experiences that bring richness to the work.

Most of us start generating inventive work as children, but for various reasons we fail to continue.

Fortunately our capacity for imagination and creating art need not end.

Forests are wonderous places. Each offers a different array of colors, fragrances and sounds. I do not walk in forests as often as I would like, places where I inevitably experience discovery and awe. But sometimes I am walking quickly on a well worn path and fail to notice the endless subtleties, the various hues, hints of the burgeoning life often unseen.

Forests are places where we can get lost in the best of ways. But we may not always have them near.

Fortunately observations that offer satisfaction and inspiration can be found from a single tree.

My thoughts return often to our daily lives being altered by technology. It is becoming increasingly pervasive; each day there seems to be mention of something new.

I compare the world of my parents or even mine as a child with that of today; the revolutionary advancements are without precedent.
How we lived a thousand years ago undoubtedly differed from our lives a few hundred years ago, but not as markedly so. We are adapting to change at an unfathomable rate-whether for better or for worse.

I am particularly concerned about the younger generations. Will they forgo the ways of old entirely? Will they shun books and the appreciation of paper? Will letter writing, which has already declined considerably, become obsolete? Will learning to fold a newspaper just so be a quaint notion of the past?

Perhaps my concern for the youth is shielding a greater fear of my own.

Will I no longer engage in activities that I’ve always held so dear? Is change and the adjustment to technology simply inevitable?

Can one still find merit in writing with a quill pen?

The summons arrived about a month ago requiring me to show up for jury duty. It is roughly the fourth time I have been called over the years.

The arrival time of 8:30 was met with a long line not dissimilar to the one I experienced at the airport the previous day; guards are in attendance, as are metal detectors, and x-ray machines. The jurors then congregate in a large room where the speaker informs us of the proceedings and taboos of the day. All is conveyed in a booming voice with an inclusion of amusing anecdotes in an attempt, I suspect, to not only keep the public engaged but the speaker himself who repeats these words day after day. Although some are already distracted by their fatigue or phones, most of us appear to be listening. And then the waiting begins, potentially for the entire day.

Although my residing borough of Brooklyn has a diverse demographic, I note the sparsity of white skin. It is difficult to ascertain, but there also seems to be a predominant attendance of the working-class( perhaps many who are most vulnerable to losing the day’s pay).

After some hours I am called for a case regarding injuries sustained in an accident. I am not chosen for this trial and return to the large room to wait again. Ninety minutes for lunch and a walk outside is a welcome reprieve.

By 4:30 those of us not chosen to participate in a trial are told we have met our obligation and will not be called again for eight years. The collective relief is palpable.

The judicial system has many imperfections. Yet I recognize that participating in part is a crucial component to ensure that our basic rights are not denied.