There's Power in the Word

I heard a story once, about a pair of birds, mates with two little chicks in the nest.  But one day one of the parent birds was killed, and its mate went into mourning.

This is a true story.  Someone observed this happening.

All the bird could do was sit on the limb of a tree apart from the nest and stare into space.  She couldn't feed the chicks, she couldn't tend the nest, she couldn't feed herself.  She stared into space for so long that one of the chicks died of starvation, and there was nothing she could do about it.  She was immobilized by one of those passages of spirit we all undergo when grief takes hold with a grip that feels like iron, and we cannot move.

We can't accomplish the tasks we set out to do, no matter how vital they are.  Our to-do lists yellow and fade.  They aren't important anymore.  We can't, even if they were.

That's how I've felt this spring.  My building looms unfinished, with so much yet to accomplish, and now the weather is mild, yet I've been unable to lift a finger towards progress until only a week ago.  I've sat immobilized in my tent, grieving loss of a father I couldn't mourn before.

This, after writing Fishing With Father, which won the HOWL Essay Contest, and which continues its life in me long after the writing is done.

That's the power of writing, folks.  Make no mistake; we embark on no minor task when we take pen to paper and put our thoughts on a page.  It is our life-blood flowing therein, carving channels deeper than which we held before, nourishing, prodding, extending forth, empowering, even endangering ourselves, our current vistas, views, and goals.  Don't take it lightly, this work we do with our hands and our voices.  It is no less than revolutionary, inside of ourselves and beyond.