My own words will not do tonight because I found these and they spoke to me. And it always feels wrong not to share the things that move me, even at the risk of making myself vulnerable. Our impermanence is what drives me to expose myself, my heart…. and to soak up anything I can find that shows me how. Otherwise, those words inside could die with us. After being mute for so long, I’m no longer willing to let that happen. So while I wait for those words to come, I will keep reading things that remind me why I started writing in the first place.
“I write because I believe in words. I write because I do not believe in words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in sand. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon: high tide, low tide. I write because it is the way I take long walks. I write as a bow to wilderness. I write because I believe it can create a path in darkness….
I write as ritual. I write because I am not employable. I write out of my inconsistencies. I write because then I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as a witness to what I imagine….
I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient we are. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.”
― Terry Tempest Williams,