Skip to main content

Fishing for an Idea

In this episode, Fishing for an Idea . . .

 

“He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone for eighty-four days now without taking a fish.”

No, no, this is not the Gulf it's the Au Sable River .  . . .

Smell - the crisp scent of the northern pines.

Focus - this is your enlightened creative self-expression talking. Place your inspired future front and center in your life.

Listen - can you hear the soft gurgling sound of running water? Cast your fly-rod into that swirling pool. There’s an idea there.

Wake-up!

Your eyelids flicker then instantly your eyes pop open. The clock on the dresser says 4:00 a.m. In a semi-consciousness state, you stumble out of bed. You make your way, in the dark, to that little room where the world has absolved you of all obligations to communicate with another human being. Privacy.

Face-it, we all do it - scattered thoughts as we talk to ourselves in our minds, especially when we’re dreaming.

Well, now that you're up - have a cup of coffee. One sugar and a little milk please Junior. Who am I talking to? Shaking your head, you realize, no one in their right mind is up this early, go back to bed. Right Junior?

The cat is sitting next to the refrigerator watching your every move.

You’re awake!

Your brain has already kicked into high gear. Thoughts exploding as bright white flashes. Words. Ideas. Stories. Suggestions. Information overload. Maybe it’s panic.

Or is it just the way I fish? Call it a habit, call it quirky, call it idiotic - but call it.

Early morning, when the house is quiet, is my most productive time. Deep down, in some peculiar way, we all know what our most creative time is. That special time of day when your gifts, skills, temperament, and experiences collide to synthesize ideas that've been churning in your brain. Put it to paper. Create something from nothing.

Huh, that begs the question, What is writing?

It's how I capture my creative ideas!

If the definition is, one who is paid to produce works that derive income or royalties, my answer to that is a resounding No.

However, if it's someone who every morning parks their hind-side at a desk and taps away at a keyboard attempting to clarify their thinking, improve written communication skills, synthesize experiences and knowledge, I emphatically say, Yes. I’ll leave it up to you, the listener to make your own assessment.

Ultimately it all comes down to fishing for your ideal lifestyle.

Let’s assume for just 60 seconds, all the tumblers in the universe align. You can picture in your mind's eye the work in which you would best shine. Why, because it taps into the best of who you are. The place where your gifts, skills, temperament, and experiences collide. Good luck!

Like The Old Man and the Sea, it’s obvious I need to get back to my fishing expedition. My creative journey for a fulling life, not work but my unique adventure.

Hah, maybe, I just need to take a nap and dream.

This is Patrick Ball, thanks for listening. See you in the next episode.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...