I’m still contemplating an epiphany of sorts, a developing understanding, a hint of something broader than I know just on the horizon of my awareness of self. I’d like to write. I feel eager. I feel motivated. I feel. That’s really it; I feel this from my core to my consciousness. I am also feeling just a bit unworthy, or unready or ill-equipped to handle the topic just yet.
The topic dominates my thoughts. Something about the nature of identity, the nature of language and words, the effect of definition, the precious and necessary confound of ambiguity and uncertainty, or the outcome of unanswered questions being a larger part of my experience than the answers to questions ever have been… or… something like that. The substance and the weight of it, still a bit incomplete and unformed in my thinking, is so massive that I feel ‘crowded’ cognitively, and continuously compelled to write, only to find myself still not yet ready to ‘lay it out’ and take a look at it as words on a page. It’s a strange sensation. It is that ‘can’t quite put my finger on it’ sensation of being unable to recall the name of a favorite movie in the midst of an exciting dialogue with a dear friend, or being unable to ‘name that tune’ even though it is a favorite song. A creative gadfly.
The pen: a might artifact, a weapon, a tool, a magic wand, a toy, a treasure.
So, although words elude me for now, I celebrate them, and language. So much of who I am, of what we are as beings, of our potential to experience the world and our ability to share it, is in our hands in the form of a pen.
Yesterday’s loveliness lingers in my memory as a secure stronghold against insecurity and fearfulness. I love, and I am loved in return. Today I will embrace serenity and calm, and that still place of observation without judgement that is within me.
Today I will change the world.
Evening Light 