“But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.”
~ Lord Byron
I love the written word. I love playing with words and how they go together in order to make something tangible of an inner thought or a feeling. I love reading beautifully pieced together sentences and paragraphs a writer has laboured over until the simple words become something exquisite in their joining.
I am less enamoured with the spoken word, the brash and bold cousin of the more dignified and refined written word, but still it has its merits.
I enjoy one-on-one conversation when masks are cast aside in favour of authenticity. I’ve just recently realized how much I appreciate the spoken word of engaging presenters who speak on topics that interest me. I appreciate my pastor’s spoken word on Sunday morning as he teaches us truth and encourages us for the journey.
I am not proficient in the spoken word, however. Somewhere between my thoughts and my speaking the words often become jumbled causing me to stumble and trip when I speak. I have clear and coherent conversations in my mind when I play back encounters in my mind later, but those words remain in the silence of my imaginings.
So I write.
Today: starting physiotherapy for my frozen, and very painful, shoulder. Praying for relief.