“Dad, you need to write for your audience.  You need to figure that out.  Have you been thinking about who your audience is since we last had this same conversation?”

“Yes, I thought about your question.  It was a good question.  It made me think a lot.” 

“Ok, good.  So who is your audience?”

“My audience is those who read what I write because they like, or at least tolerate, how I write and appreciate what I write about.”

Pause in conversation.

“Well, that’s convenient.  So, how does that help grow your website?”

Another pause in conversation, longer.

“I know you want me to be successful as a writer, and I truly appreciate that, and you remind me often enough that I am not getting younger, which is true, but writing is like music.”

“Music?  What does music have to do with your writing and website?”

“Well…you listen to music, and you chose music you like because it moves or satisfies you.  And you like a singer for the sound they make and what they sing about.  Right?”

“Ok…ok, I can concede that point.”

“Well, thanks.  And just as you choose music based on the sound and what the singer sings about, that is the same with writing.  You read something on a website, sometimes you return to read something else, and sometimes you decide to stay and journey with a writer because you like the sound and the thoughts the writer’s words produce within your mind, and maybe even within your soul, because of what the writer says and how it sings within you.  At least that’s the writer I want to be for others.  I write for those, who, through whatever process or whatever path brought them to my website, return to read again, because they appreciate what I say and how I say it, who do me the honor of thinking I have something to offer them.  And that is really my only concern about my audience, that, I have something good and sustaining to offer.

Long pause….end of conversation.

***

I write to give those who want, or discover they need, at times, a quiet place of refuge and solitude to rest within along their way.  The image is of someone who travels everyday on foot, or within their mind and soul, to work, back home, and to all the other elsewheres of their life, along the same busy, noisy streets and avenues of a huge, overly-exciting city that never sleeps. But one day, for some reason unknown, even with the first step and all following steps, they take a different path down a previously unexplored and very unfamiliar street.  And then, in the middle of that surprisingly peaceful tree-shaded street, they discover to their amazement and cautious wonder, a small church of grey stone, its origins and year of construction unproclaimed and hidden.  This unusual omission of history and fact is of no consequence to the seemingly perpetually moving feet that suddenly stop at the open wrought-iron gate at the entrance of a flower-lined, carefully laid brick walkway, which leads into the pleasant, well-attended garden of multitude shades of green, and soft touches of violet, dusty rose, and mauve, right here and over there.  This path approaches, in the middle of the garden, a dignified fountain of the same grey stone as the chapel, its cascades of splashing water sounding so clear and alive.  The walkway then divides and circles around the fountain, and leads then to stone steps ascending to the porch landing of the church and its open doors just a few steps ahead. The entrance beckons and invites and silently speaks a welcome, a gentle soft urging, to all who have paused, for whatever reason, at the garden gate, who also first turned and wandered down the tree-lined street, for reasons still unknown.

I write for those who step towards the church, either cautiously at first or with steady determination, and for those who cross the threshold and enter into the quiet chapel, seeking things not yet known nor capable of immediate understanding or articulation.  I write for those whose wish is just to sit among the pews, to rest without expectations and burdens being placed upon them.  For those who seek to still their mind and exercise and rest their heart, to breath in the air of a space providing quietude for thought and meditation. I write for those who want a place within which to contemplate the presence of God in the soft light of a chapel that offers a quiet corner, a refuge without suggestions to hurry, a place within which fears may be lifted and anxiety calmed. A place which is a respite and a shelter from the cacophony of the world, from whatever source that noise emanates and blares, a chapel within which to pray, to think, and meditate, a space of solitude within which to be before the Lord in stillness and peace.   

In this chapel, nothing is for sale, and the cash register and its tinny sound is an abomination to the space of the church and an assault upon the God of grace, peace, and love.  This is a place where all are welcome, whose doors are always open to those who find the quiet street and the path to the chapel.  A space where the only daily work is to sweep the leaves off the front porch landing of the church in the morning, to dust the pews, to open the windows to the song of birds nesting about in the garden in pleasant weather, to close them in gratitude to the sound of the rain blessing, cleansing, and renewing the garden and all within it, to ensure the fountains of clear water for refreshing and drinking are always flowing, and to illuminate the chapel softly at night with candles or a dimming of the lights.   

This wonderful vision is of a church built of stone to withstand storms and last through the many tests of time, and of a place where life and a heart of warm beating human flesh can form, incubate and shelter within its walls.  A chapel cool in the summer heat, and warm and comforting during the winter storms, with someone always at home within, waiting, in prayer or meditation or reading, to welcome warmly and usher in, and then to leave alone those who wish to just rest within – someone waiting like a gentle and kind custodian or doorkeeper always on watch to make sure the doors are open and the room swept and ready, like a wise and loving librarian within a library of just one small room or one of multiple high vaulted ceilings who, in the morning, joyfully moves her hands over all the books, preparing all for the searching minds that will enter, like an eager, rested, and kind teacher in the morning, awaiting and shepherding in the sound of little feet and the voices and souls they carry.  And all this in a sheltered, softly lit chapel of rest, with doors always open, in the middle of a quiet, tree-shaded side street, in a city like New York, that never sleeps.

***

I write for an adult son of close friends.  I had first known of him a couple of months before he was born, before I even knew he was a him, and then, since his birth, because of our long-lasting friendship with his parents, I watched him grow up, turbulent teenage years and all, and then on to the years on his own, a total of about thirty years now.  This young man, intelligent, handsome even, someone who I think of and relate to in some degree as a son, tattooed, with seven now he informs me, has a good, well-paying job with a utility company, his pay especially enhanced by the abundant overtime.  He loves his beer, and drinking with his buddies after work, telling me the last time we talked, that he has a slight, at least for now, beer belly.  He is kind, loving to his parents and others, but quick to be alert to the physical dangers and threats of beer-stupid buddies and others, and though not tall or large, he should not be considered an easy target, for he is not.

In November 2021, he texted me to see how I was doing and how my writing was coming along, specifically asking about my novel, of which he has read several scenes.  I told him that I was working exclusively on my website trying to get it to the point where I only had to devote one week a month to it so that I could then use the rest of the month getting back to the novel and my longer non-fiction works.  He was very interested in what I said, and then one of us suggested that we get together to talk more and we set a date for the first week or so of December.  He said he enjoys getting together with me, as I am one of the few persons in his life, besides his parents and brother, with whom he can have an intelligent conversation.  

Before we actually got together, I asked him about his vaccination status, as my wife and I were being very careful as we were planning to try to visit all our far-flung grandchildren in December.  He was not vaccinated as he said he had not made up his mind yet to do so, so we worked it out that we could meet in my backyard with masks on and at a safe distance.  When we were making these arrangements, he said he wanted to discuss with me why he has decided not to be vaccinated, at least for right now, because he enjoys talking and debating about the pandemic, vaccinations, and other political issues.  I said no, we will not need to discuss this, as we have more important things to talk about, such as his life, and the challenges within it, and his family, his wife and two children, and another child by his first marriage, all of whom he truly loves and cares for and spends time with, providing for all of them very well.

Before he came over, I made a soup I knew he liked, which we used to make together when he was younger.  While still in high school, and even up to when he was first married, he would occasionally come over and together we would make a big pot of a soup we both really enjoyed of noodles, green onions, garlic, jalapeno peppers, and chives and basil from the garden if available, in a beef broth with a little soy sauce and ginger.  At least that is the way I remember making it.  I did not tell him I was going to make soup, as I wanted it to be a gift and a surprise, and it was, and it pleased him very much, which I thought it would.  And since we had not met for perhaps two years because of the pandemic, I wanted to make our time together special, to some a truly trite word and expression and perhaps overused, but that was my true thought and goal, providing something special for him because I was happy and looking forward to seeing him, a young man now with three children, who had taken the initiative to contact me to see how I was and inquire about my writing.  

As we talked in the backyard, with masks on and at a safe distance as we agreed – and, as it was, with the way we sat, he just naturally downwind from me because of the direction from which the breeze was blowing – he again inquired about my writing.  I first described to him some of the changes that the website developer was making to the website to improve the ease of navigation around the site and other improvements.  I then told him how I had written a section on who I write for, and he listened intently as I described this person using an extended image of someone unexpectedly finding a small church in the middle of a quiet, tree-lined, side street off one of the busy, noisy, avenues of a perpetually moving, busy, city.  This person enters the chapel and discovers a quiet place that is always open, a space where everyone is welcome to enter to partake of the quietude to think, pray, or meditate, or just to sit quietly to find a safe refuge and a rest from everything going on in the world outside and within themselves.  A place of comfort and solace, cleansing and refreshment, and peace.  When I finished telling him of this image, of someone looking for and finding a place of peace within which to rest, he looked at me with a deep, quiet, look, as if he had really listened to what I had said, which he actually always does, and he said softly, simply, and very honestly, “That sounds very nice.”  

Our conversation then paused as we both quietly looked at each other for a moment, and then we each took some of our soup, he with his spoon, as I remember, and I by just picking up my bowl and sipping from it.  I write for him, to gift him, as much as I am able, a quiet place within which to rest.

***

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