I used to think that my greatest fear was to write, and have no one read. To disseminate words, and have them falling like so many dead leaves on a cracked pavement. To roll out pages, and be greeted by robust rounds of silence.

I used to think that my greatest fear was to shout out like a stranger in a back alley, crying for help or for directions or for recognition, and have everyone ignore me, getting on calmly with their washing.

But this is not my greatest fear at all. My greatest fear is that I never speak my truth.

Promise

January 5, 2009

Promise me that your word will never be your bond. Promise me you’ll only ever use words to set yourself free, to create new worlds, to build castles in the air. Promise me your words will weave fantastic webs that spin toward infinity, rather than trap into oblivion.

Promise me that words matter so much to you that you will only ever use them carelessly, lightly, without a thought or a care in the world. Promise me this.

Headlong

January 4, 2009

We worship beauty, yet we are afraid. We see in its face the very things we lack, the sense of balance, harmony, proportion, rhythm, wholeness, fullness and joy that we crave. We want it so badly we deny it to ourselves, fearful that by chasing beauty, either it or us will get hurt.

So we erect ugly pavilions of aluminum and plastic, attaching them together by paper clips and sticky tape, tacking to these the remnants of our dreams. We cover our wounds with Post-Its and cheap ribbons. We grub about in poverty instead of running headlong into beauty, daring the leap to discover the place it’s already built for us there.

Shelf

January 2, 2009

I love books. I love their covers, their spines, the way they stand shoulder to shoulder on a heaving shelf. I love to watch browsers take a book down, open it, flip through the pages, mull, consider, handle and embrace it as though renewing a secret pact.

I even love it when, by accident, someone removes a book that was propping up all the others, and a whole shelf’s worth topples, tumbling and clattering and causing everyone else in the library or store to turn and look in amazement at a swelling pile on the floor.

Love

January 1, 2009

If I could find the words for love, I would. If I could shape it, form it, define its parameters, I would. If I could mould it like so much clay or plasticine, I would. But I can’t.

Love arises from the belly, it arises from the heart. Love caresses the world and fully recognizes itself. It understands deeply, articulately, fully, and yet can barely speak. Love is divine and heartbreakingly human.

These words are so poor, so poor.