Emily Dickenson reminds us, The word is dead when it is said, some say / But I say, it just begins to live that day.
I have found that in each ‘word’ chosen there is a sacred becomingness. A becoming, at each and every articulated moment. A weaving of reality in the now and the becoming. Emergence.
John Shotter reminds me “that Goethe shows us there are mysteries we can ‘enter into’ and begin to find our ‘way around’, there is a ‘poetic’ way of talking and writing – what we may call ‘withness’ writing – we express what we find in our criss-cross journeying over often befogged landscapes. Ways of taking and writing are like signposts erected at recognisable landmarks, ‘pointing to’ what is next in the world of our everyday, practical affairs.”
The poet Eric Ormsby knew this, when he wrote, I have the feeling that words lead a private existence of their own, apart from us, and that when we speak or write, especially in moments of strong emotion, we do little more than hitch a ride on some obliging syllable or accommodating phrase.
And from Fink, language has a life of is own .. (and) while we have the feeling, much of the time, of choosing our words, at times they are chosen for us.
This is the power and the healing of journalling, of blogging. Words crafting, exploring, bringing out lived experience and insight.
Words allow me to know self as flow.