Writing and Being

I haven’t written much lately. Sometimes it’s like that. Words need an open channel, a lighted path, a clear mission. You have to be able to get out of their way.

Writing is an ethereal art. There is something of the invisible in it. Where do the words come from? How are ideas born? What is a thought? Does a thought have substance? Matter? Or is it entirely transient, like the wind?

When babies are first born they can’t talk. Or at least they don’t, pretty much universally. Some tell us that even though they have physically crossed over into this world, for some time babies remain more in the spirit world than in this one. During their first year, they slowly begin to keep a foot in each world. Then, as they start to take on the language of those around them, the spirit world becomes more and more faint. Before they reach young adulthood, most have utterly forgotten the spirit world and are hard pressed to be made to believe such a thing even exists.

This makes for a good argument that there’s a connection between words and the spirit. Like when you suspect that two people might actually be the same person because they’re never in the same room together. You know, like Superman and Clark Kent, or Barry Bonds and Gladys Knight.

In short, to take on language, it appears we must first give up spirit. At least its purest form. Then, for many of us, we spend a great part of our adult lives trying to use that language to retrace our steps, to hear the language of the spirit. This is what I talk about when I talk about finding your voice.

Which begs the question: Do words help us or hinder us? Or both? Words are necessary, aren’t they? If there were no words, how would we even know our thoughts? And conversely, if there were no spirit, could words exist?

I believe each word is a tiny spirit. A reflection of the whole. A drop of water splashing down on Earth.

Think about it.

Namaste,
T.