Writing is like trying to catch water in our palms. The words slip through with every shift of our grasp and yet without movement we cannot drink.
We agree on a word to represent a thread of being with a tapestry of eons of experience woven through it. Not even six and a half thousand languages (not nearly enough!) can represent this ecosystem that is just one life, but we keep singing and painting, because how we mouth our joys and sorrows is part of the tapestry. Even the smallest word could be as powerful as a star, if we let it unseal our hearts and minds.
Keep singing and opening. Tell your stories around the campfires. Don’t let the hooks of discouraging words stop your throat from resonating the song that is your life. Perhaps the finest poets were illiterate. Perhaps the finest painters lost their works in the sand every day.
Hallowed – poem published in Querencia: A Compilation of Zuni Mountain Poets, 2014