Wordsmithing is your take of the world that you hear and see. So for me it’s not difficult, what you see is what you get. As I grow older I just happen to choose a little lovin’. Not that I’ve not traversed the same wild rivers that most of us have to wade through, or climbed the mountains of time and sweat that seem to wait around every corner, where just when you think it’s clear sailing it’s “a why me Lord moment?” The beauty of life is sometimes you don’t have to think about breathing, it’s just part of the morning sunrise.
I’ve been a wordsmith puttering with words for a lifetime now, and I don’t have anything negative to say. Words wear the light in your eyes, or the fear in your soul, and every word spoken leaves a shadow long, neither right nor wrong. The ear that wears it hears what it wants, and owns it evermore.
We are creatures of our imagination requiring pictures and words to express what we imagine is reality, thus we become artists and poets or our inner child. We are not born silent, nor are we with pen in hand, and words to express who we are, are given to us through the gift of listening. Having glimpsed at how the old masters gave words to the way it is—the Tao of it, all I have come to understand is but an echo of all there ever was to be said. I only have the words to repeat what the universe has whispered in my ear, spoken with a virtuous breath not my own, for I borrow all that I am from all that has been and is.
I do know for certain that words have wings. A letter forms in the brain, a chain reaction originating in the heart, and is then trampled by a domain of thoughts
A word slips between two lips, rushes upon the universe in a wind of wonder and surprise. Something happens—the word becomes a butterfly of caring and sharing, leaving a blush on everything it touches, or it may have something sad to say, leaving everything in the world a touch darker.
Words damp down the clutter in my mind. They give sound meaning, set mood to the motion of my random thoughts, and give feeling and purpose to the world around me. Words are the foundation I balance on, and the ethereal limits I am bound by. Words rescue me from the silence of not knowing why. They make me laugh, make me cry, and are the lifeline to whatever ear or eye compliments my passing by.
Wordsmithing puts me in the conductor’s seat instead of being a passenger, even if no one’s on the train I’m riding. I can go places I’ve never been, and maybe never will be able to attend other than in my imagination. I can go places I’ve already been to, and remember just how human we all are.
Awake or asleep, clichés, metaphors, verbs and nouns rattle in my brain and I write because it drowns out the noise in my head. Wordsmithing; at times it’s work—a labor of the mind, at times it’s play—the wit of wordplay, the scrabble of words. At times it is just saying what has to be said: the pain, the sorrow, the happiness and joy of a life. Sometimes it’s just because I want to build something with words that makes you stop the car, step-out, stand in wonder admiring the grace, the majesty, the complexity of form and composition, where nothing stands still, everything imaginable is moving in a dance of vibrational energy.
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