Writing the Weasel

I have another assignment for my writing class (writing 121). We are to write an expository essay on one of four readings, all of which have a theme about nature. I chose the one about weasels. The title of the reading I chose is Living Like Weasels, written by Annie Dillard.

I am introduced to the weasel as an animal which preys on mice, rabbits, and other small creatures, and it has the instinct to bite at the base of the skull or the throat to kill its prey. To bite is to eat and to eat is to live, and the weasel wants to live, so it will not give up once it bites down.

Ms. Dillard tells the story of a man who shot an eagle (hello! isn't that the national fugging bird?) and found the skull of a weasel attached by the jaws to the bird's neck. The eagle preyed on the weasel and the weasel fought back. Weasels are defiant.

I read that weasels are single in mind, living not by choice but by necessity, and Ms. Dillard admires the weasels' single minded trait. My impression is that Ms. Dillard is using the weasel, with its tenacity and singleness of purpose, as a reprovement to other artists to "...grasp your one necessity and not let it go..." I say this because she is a writer, an artist, and as an artist, although a dormant one, I understand what this means. It takes a kind of tenacity to work on a vision that takes weeks, months, or years to complete. It takes a single mind to yield to the voice within that says "create!" People meet an artist and look into their eyes; both the artist and the observer know the two are in different worlds.

Most of my work demanded a will that would not let go. My drawings took a minimum of four weeks, eight to ten hours a day. While learning photography and working my vision, I developed hundreds of rolls of film and that is no exaggeration. When I don't create, and my artistry gathers dust, it bothers me. I feel like an impostor when I choose only normal life.

Over a week later I finish this post...

By this day my hair has grown far too long, and my beard is thick and long, and once again I am up far past my bed time. I miss the bicycle and intend to ride more than an hour every other day. My greater wish is that my interest in writing, waxing and waning for years, stays put. Should I worry about what may happen -grasping something bigger than I know? No. Like the weasel that bit the eagle, it is nothing but a matter of doing.