My words are overflowing river and dried up riverbed. They bubble and pour, spill over and nourish; they disappear and stand still. They are both.
I've written through writer blocks. I've been silent through writer blocks. I've waited for inspiration and I've learned to create my own. But at the end of the day, when the words won't come, I find, at least lately, I'd rather not force it.
I'd rather just live.
Because so much of the time, writing and living, they lace fingers as I walk, run or limp through seasons. I couldn't separate them if I wanted.
There are moments, days, weeks even, I'm content without words.
At the sight of blooms on the magnolia trees or the air magically caught in a snowstorm of delicate pink blossoms; pausing at a thick holly tree nearly pulsating with bird melodies and imagining the choir I can't see inside. When I sit with my husband on a dock on the lake, our legs dangling over the edge, and call to the ducks with the emerald heads and royal plumage, chuckle at the rascally seagulls; when I'm lost, momentarily, in the exuberance of a golden retriever diving into the water for a ball. The sliver of moon hanging on the edge of opaque circle, attracting my wonder; diving birds skimming the top of the water in perfect hydroplane landings, then disappearing beneath without making a splash; a lone turtle stretching out on a rock, his feet tiny paddles displayed, enjoying the last moments of light; a pair of eagles perched in trees, dark and stately feathered giants among us.
I'm tempted, at times, to rush to write these down, and in doing so, the moments slip through my fingers. The writing replaces the living wonder - the seeing, listening, feeling, smelling, hearing miracles of being present.
I'm learning to be still, to not immediately grasp for words.
And if the words come and fall away before I have opportunity to write them down? I carry them, imprints on my heart.
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