Words

In the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore has a line that goes something like this: "Words are our most inexhaustible source of magic." J.K. Rowling, the magic-maker herself, has every right to work a phrase like that.

I feel like words are failing me lately. Not for scarcity- no- my God- there are so many words. Too many words. Piles and piles of useless, ridiculous words. I am drowning in the word-piles vomited by people who can't find the edit mechanism in their brain. This might explain my sudden thirst for meditation, silent worship with the Quakers, and as much sleep as I can get. I need to get away from all the damn words. They suffocate me.

It's a bit like losing the foundation to my house.

My sister and I were talking this morning. She shared that she had a bit of an epiphany about doing the best she could at her practice- her skill set. She is a therapist, and she said that she used to have these grand ideas of changing the world- maybe through writing or speaking. She said that now she feels more centered in her new endeavor: to cast aside the "be all things" and focus on the skills that she has already crafted. She is now on a mission to be the best therapist that she can be. She might not have a brand or start a revolution, but her patients will get unbelievable care, and that can be revolutionary.

I was so inspired by that, I thought- wow- if we all just focus in on the thing we are gifted for- on the thing we've crafted within ourselves- on our passion- then maybe all the people- as wholly functioning parts- will make a more whole world.

Then I thought: what the hell am I crafting? I have a book, which might as well be titled "the never-ending writing" for the lack of an end in sight. I have a blog, which I fairly diligently update (not this one) and a handful of folks seem to enjoy. I had a job in a career that was respectable, which I took a break from to do this book. Yet, right now my craft seems to be sleeping and eating Cheezits, and also avoiding housework.

This blog is titled "writing light in dark corners" yet every time I feel compelled to come over here and write, I feel like I'm dumping black ink into the sun's glare. I want people to see the darkness that the light of oblivion seems to be blotting out.

And there again, are those precious words. The words which have been my balm and sacred space are now garbage piles. Putrid, overflowing, smothering mountains of absolute rubbish. Weighty little shits that mean nothing. Even the gorgeous words are rendered plain by the sheer volume.

Too many words.

I don't have my art anymore. Loud and thoughtless mouths have taken my paint and pissed it everywhere, demanding that people respect their art form which took them seconds and zero thought. Or worse- they intentionally crafted the words to hypnotize and paralyze and exploit. My precious words have been transformed from flowers to daggers, honey to piss, magic to tricks.

Too many words.

I feel like protesting with silence. Confronting with SILENCE. You're going to trash words? I will make them sacred again. I will stop speaking, writing.

Even worse, I stop caring. That is what has happened. I used to have this fire inside me, I could not sit still if I wasn't writing it down, thinking it out. Now I just sit and stare into the blue sky aching for silence.

Every terrible thing that happens. Every beautiful thing that happens. I no longer have words for them. They have been stolen. Words are no longer magic. I have become an unbeliever.

So I am lost, and I don't even have the words to describe it.