There is only one way to write. You have to sit down and find the words to describe what you are thinking. That is why I haven't been writing much of late. The words are elusive and seem to mutate into something else the minute I write them, speak them or think them. Have you ever said or written a word over and over so many times that it becomes something you don't recognize? Something that means nothing? This happens to me at times as I switch from Italian to English. A simple word like "daffodil" will feel so strange in my mouth, I wind up thinking that I made it up.
The other day I was walking through the nearly finished rooms of the house that will become my home. I was overcome by a feeling so unsettling that I once again could not find the words. There I was in a room with a bay window, where I hope to set my table and sit with my family, and I felt like I was sneaking a peek at someone else's life, like I had to tiptoe or get caught and kicked out. This feeling comes over me also as I ride down the road and gaze upon the Rocky Mountains before me, something so majestic and overpowering that I can't help but think about some kind of God. Am I really here?
Did I somehow do this? Somehow make this happen? My close call with cancer has left this feeling of glow on me. It doesn't matter how uncertain I am. It doesn't matter how many of life's trappings come and go. All that matters is this glow, this thing, this indescribable, wordless, tiptoeing feeling. A feeling that I can't quite name until it is gone.