I was surprised by the words that came in my last post.
I have thought and written a lot (in my journal) about this new inner landscape I find myself entering, but I have described it differently.
Indeed, I describe it over and over, turning phrases and words and pictures in my head, trying to find just the right words. There are so many almost-right words that I have a hard time talking about what I’m mulling over.
Blooming desert isn’t quite right, either. I have, indeed, felt empty (formless and void?) for several years. And that has, indeed, been slowing changing and transforming over the last year and a half. But I do not think that I am a desert. I reject the idea that a time of dryness and emptiness equals perpetual desert, blooming or not.
Splitting hairs, my dear, I suppose. Maybe I can be a desert one day and a fertile land the next.
Don’t you feel that finding words connects you with your experience? I suppose that others might need color or movement, not words. I need words. Even when I attempt to draw or paint, what comes out are words.
I’m making a concerted effort to capture some of those words that are running under what I’m otherwise doing – dishes, nursing, sweeping, listening, talking. Ironically, when I sit down to write them down, these carefully crafted words, phrases, thoughts, theses, disappear and other, new words appear. Blooming desert, anyone?