Writings of Andrew Schiestel

A picture of a wooden and metal chair overlooking Lake Ontario from the harbour.

At what point does someone become something?

One can do something, but not be that something.

“You a golfer?” I would say to the businessman.

“I golf.” He would respond with a slight chuckle; both of us would then smile in understanding.

Becoming something is a rite of passage. There seems to be a line. With something so personal, it’s counter-intuitive that it has very little to do with the self, but instead, with those responding to the self.

The doctor isn’t a doctor unless the correct authoritative body enshrined by another authoritative body enshrined by another authoritative body told him so.

“Are you a skier?” I’ve been asked many times. I ski, but I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone, ever, that I’m a skier. I may have to practice more, if so.

It’s the response or judgement of others, whether in monologue or dialogue, that illuminates the line.

This morning I was asked if I was a writer. I consider myself one, and have told others that I am. But this morning when asked by the woman at the coffee shop, I responded with a smile, “I write.”

And so it tells me that there is more yet to do.

And I would be happy to practice more.

The hero image picture depicts Lake Ontario, from Harbourfront Centre, with Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport in the background.

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