Good morning, dear reader! Good morning!
Oh thank goodness, I can speak again.
I bounded out of bed faster than you can imagine, delighted with the prospect of blogging with words after a month of posting only photographs. Click here to read about that commitment.
Ahhh…to be able to communicate in beloved words! To allow words to dance, to sing, to laugh, to pray, to ponder, to jump in cold lakes and swim.
How I love words! They sizzle, they puff, they crackle like fireworks in colors in the sky. They ignite my heart. I always watch awe-struck to see what words will emerge from the typing fingers.
At eight years old I wrote my first poem called “Robin”. Mrs. Story, my third grade teacher (oh, don’t you love her name?) urged me to read it to the class. Shy, quivering, I recited the words while the students listened.
In fourth grade, I wrote my first 123-page book. It was the story of Gretel, escaping from the Nazis in Germany. She scurried from castle to castle, although my memory refuses to recall the specifics of this elementary escapade. I tried to re-read the story several years ago and marveled at the terrible, but heartfelt writing.
Then came the little red typewriter as a Christmas gift. I spent the rest of childhood behind closed bedroom doors writing stories after stories which never seemed to come to conclusion. A novel from the point of view of young King David. An Amish girl who fell in love with a non-Amish fellow and was banished from the sect. A trillion poems so deep in teenage angst that you could barely surface into meaning.
My mother–bless you, Mom!–listened to most of these words (at least in the early years) and nodded her encouragement and appreciation.
A teacher once said, “Why don’t you write about something you know about?” as I waxed enthusiastically about the Amish banishment.
I didn’t think I knew about anything.
OK, OK, back to this last month. The wild words were roped and corralled and told to stay by the barn and eat hay. The photographs were in charge.
Oh, reader, guess what the best part of posting photographs (and not words) was for this blog writer?
The internal story-teller finally shut up. (Sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to use those evil words: shut up.)
Ahhh, blessed silence in the mind! The roaring river of internal words trickled to a stream. The mind became clear, silent, transparent.
The photographs told their stories. You posted them and you could forget them. I am not attached to photos like words. My heart doesn’t usually sizzle and dance with photographs. I am always amazed when people even like ’em. I will gladly post a blurred photo if it tells a story, because the story seems more important than the quality of the photograph.
And–sigh–it still seems impossible to read the photography manual and figure out what professionals do. Much more fun to intuit–OK, sometimes to peek at the photography instructions–and people seem to like the pictures.
The photography-only month was Wonderful. It didn’t even feel like blogging. It felt like blogging at half steam. The visual people applauded. Ahhh—photos, they said, thank you, we’re enjoying this! The word people kinda stayed low-key. Those who like both words and pictures adjusted.
I had maybe three desperate days in which the words threatened to break the commitment. They felt lonely, heart-broken, ignored.
But the inner silence enjoyed itself.
Not responding to comments also proved both a positive and negative experience. It was positive because I suddenly felt free, expansive! No longer required to respond to every comment. Yet I also missed the daily conversations with blogging friends, the give-and-take of saying “howdy, how you doing, I hear what you’re saying.” The easy back-and-forth.
However, I did get to comment on other blogs more frequently than usual. Instead of replying here on the comments, I skipped on over and read more other blogs, letting a few words trickle out here and there.
OK, dear word-lovers, even you are probably getting tired of reading after almost 800 words escape their corral! The wild ponies of words are running toward the mountains, their freedom finally gained. The pintos, with their black and white spots, have turned into sentences and even paragraphs.
We’re free! they proclaim, and they gallop ecstatically toward the next blog. (In which, OK, I promise, you’ll get to see photographs again. Words and photographs.)