"they say the owl was a baker's daughter. lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be." (Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5)

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Saturday, February 26, 2011

Saying My Piece (Peace)

It's been fits and starts. My husband bears the burden of my uncertainties on his indefatigable shoulders. Imagine if my Atlas shrugged. How would I ever recover my balance? Last week, he asked me if I had been blogging lately. I think he was suggesting that maybe it was time for me to process my anxieties and incoherence somewhere else. He knows me. Knows I need to reflect to make sense and find peace. So, I'm here. Reflecting. Searching for peace. Searching for the piece that always evades. My peace, my piece, my keystone to clarity.

Did you know I love words? The problem with loving in words is that I believe them to be true. I drink words, eat them for breakfast, sing them in the shower, post them, tweet them, text them, blog them, catalog them, speak them, hear them, seek them, absorb them, digest them, devour them, underline them, research them, adore them, and most importantly, trust them.

But words are fickle. Words are dubious. Words are unreliable. Words, meretricious words. Handle with care.

Words haunt me and taunt me through long sleepless nights. Echoes of words -- both those shouted and those unspoken -- tempt me, tussle my memory. All those lingering words hang in the balance. All those words uttered against my better judgement. No restraint. My impertinent tongue does not respond to reason. Not prudent. My voice box is often reckless.

I'll show you my soul with my words. I'll use my words to comfort you, abhor you, praise you, and deride you. I'll use words to express myself, define myself, and assert myself. Words as emollient, words as daggers. Listen, please listen. My words are me at my best, at my worst, my strongest, and my weakest.

So when you talk talk, and I listen listen, just know that I'm remembering remembering. A transcript of words, both yours and mine, catalogued, tagged, archived, and playing forever on the tireless tape in my head. Stuttering, puttering, listing, twisting, weaving, weary, proud, loud, smart, swift, truth, and dared. Words. Yours. Mine. Ours now. In perpetuity.

And when I can't silence it, when the cacophony hits a deafening roar on the inside, a clamoring jamboree, when words have failed me, I muster all my strength and push down harder on those mighty shoulders. Reaching tall, I stand on the shoulders of my personal giant, and he helps me see further, with greater clarity, more forgiveness, less judgement, and higher hope. Hope, "that bedraggled daughter of fear and desire". My Atlas deals me hope. And even though hope is not a brilliant strategy, it is a beautiful word.

Baby, please don't shrug.

ps: credit for this blog title goes to my good friend, Koreen Olbrish. Thanks K!