The Writing

The following was written for English. Just thought i'd share

“…to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse.”
–Annie Dillard, “Living Like Weasels”

Dillard writes such a line on the pretense of a weasel finding the fleshiest point at which to subdue a prey, and yet the implications of the one line seem to carry much more weight. Dillard says to find that one spot and plug into its pulse, just as one would find his or her niche and never cease to live up to it. In my mind, and soul I see the words falling upon the page with the intent of trying to find one’s purpose in life, perhaps my own purpose in life. How conceited and corrupt to think of such implications, and yet I cannot pull myself away from it. Purpose. Purpose? How to point down one’s purpose when I do not know my own. Each morning I wake up, with the intent of doing well in whatever course I may choose to pursue. It is the same course every day, and I do not realize my purpose yet. I do decently well in school, I play decently well in tennis, I keep a decent physique, I acquire decent relationships with friends. Purpose? How to pinpoint this pulse? This spot in which I may plug in.
I turn to my brother. Pulse. It reminds me of heart, and every implication of heart makes me turn to my brother. He owns a piece of my heart, and I hope I own a piece of his heart, and yes, he’s had heart problems. He was born with a heart deficiency. Something my parents knew not how to handle, but they did. They were told he would have to have open heart surgery every few years, until adulthood. They were told he would need a pacemaker. They were told that he had a heart problem. I was told, my little brother, of whom I did not meet yet, was sick. A surgeon was called in, Dr. Lax. He told my parents, he had a found a way around it. He told my parents that my brother would only need two surgeries, and of all things, he told my parents there was hope. Two years passed, two surgeries took place and my brother was fine. He had a scar, the size of his spread out hand on his chest. He was fine though. Concerns have always arisen over his physical activity. Whether or not he should give every effort his all, as Dillard would suggest, out of concern of whether or not his heart could handle it. And it has. Every day. Every single waking moment, his heart pulses to rhythm of his body. It gives him life, where there might not be any. It gives me a brother, where there might be a void.
He is twelve now, twelve and strong, and tall for his age, very tall for this family. I can hear his steps as I write this. Walking to and fro upstairs, getting ready for tomorrow’s day. He is healthy. He is normal and maybe something more. He dresses in the same manner I did at his age, and talks very much as I do. His interests correlate with my own, and his will is strong. He is physically strong, and the only hint you will ever find of his heart problem is his scar.
Pulse. He always has a pulse. I hear it when I press my ear to his chest as he sleeps. I know it is there. I find my pulse in him. He is my pulse, in which to plug into, in which to find my purpose, and maybe much more. For what makes me wake day to day? I find little enjoyment in school, which once loved. I find clashing relationships between me and my parents. I find luck has abandoned me when the work never seems to end. And he keeps me real. He keeps me down to earth and sane. He keeps me thankful that there is someone else to love and care for. He keeps me selfless. He keeps me good, because I know he looks up to me. Because I know each day I wake up to, he must also face it as I do. We are brothers, and he is my pulse. My purpose, and I plug into him as the weasel into a prey’s neck.
Dillard sought to portray instinct and voice, she sought to say, “Never let go.” My brother is that hope in me. And he allows me to have that voice in me. And through it all, he is what is keeping me holding onto this rope.
Thank you, Justin.