Creating When Words Confound You

Mellifluous. Box. Broom. Batter.

I have a love-hate relationship with words. 

My admiration is full, but my, do they confound me. 

I close my eyes and imagine them around me, no less out of reach than fireflies pursued by a boy with a jar and cloth, mesmerized by their glow. 

Some float without care. Others dangle, wrestle, spin, march, and struggle, each waiting to fall onto a page. 

I grab my pad and pencil. 

Yet these words: They are patient, uncertain of what the fall may bring. For some, the fright is too much. 

What holds them there?

“Won’t you please come down?” I wonder, but they are stubborn.

They taunt me. I stretch to grab them, my body taut, as when an older brother holds candy out of reach. 

A wind rustles. The words rock to and fro. Each now waits its turn to plunge from the precipice that separates them from the tumult. 

“Where do we go?” they inquire. “To what rules must we adhere?” 

Rules? What a silly question. There are no rules.

The wind gives way to harmony. 

They begin to fall. I breathe again.

Mellifluous. Malefaction. Pyrrhic. Penelope. Ratatouille. Weltanschauung. Zeitgeist. Box. Broom. Batter.

My ears buzz.

I feel them liberated, dancing in pairs, twirling, prancing, whirling until each becomes so intoxicated that I can no longer watch. 

The harmony writes itself, a moment of speechless creation.

Photo from Smithsonian Magazine.

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