A Hundred Delicate Petals

Words

           I have always loved the look of this font. The little diamonds in place of periods, the simple elegance that shouts “I have a tale to tell” more than a million words placed in a row. Maybe it’s that I’ve read so many entrancing stories and adored them so much, the font now holds a permanent place in my heart. Strange, isn’t it?

But this is not about a font, or diamonds, or a story, or a strange obsession.

This is my million words, placed in a row.

~

What else is there to do with words but tell a story? A simple sentence can tell a story as well as the two-hundred-eighty-three pages of a novel.

I’m just an average girl. A country girl, for that matter. Country girls are the girls who know the secret – where the raw beauty in wildness is found. If you were raised in the city, you just don’t have the appreciation, the understanding of the beauty of the sunlight through the trees that we do.

I make average mistakes. Or do I? To you, they might be average, but to me these mistakes were earth-shattering, confidence-destroying, heart-breaking mistakes. What may not be important to you is important to me, and to hear my million words in a row, you’ll have to open up your soul. There are words that talk, and then there are words that sing. There are words that speak to the brain, words that speak to the heart, and words that sing to the soul.

I have heard the song of the words, and I want you to hear it too.

~

The first step. What is the first step? Even I don’t know. You know when people claim that something you don’t want to do is “part of the experience” and you absolutely must do it? Swallow your fear and go do it. If you’re not afraid, you can’t have courage. I don’t really know where I’m going – and with that there’s both a choking fear and a wild exultation.

I imagine that this feeling is like standing on the edge of a cliff and seeing a beautiful, rushing river winding peacefully below. Should I jump? Or should I find a way down the cliff, barefoot?

If I ever walked down a precarious path, I’d do it with feet bare, hair swinging over my face, my hand running over the smoothness of the cliff wall beside me. There’s something about running my hand over smooth things that gives me a peaceful feeling; like I could fly.

Could I fly?

~

It's like raising my hand to answer a question that I'm only halfway sure I know, in a packed crowd of Einsteins.