A bead of water slides from my paddle into the lake. It dimples the surface, like a curious finger poking for answers. A circle forms on the water, then another and another, spreading outward in a graceful dance. One drop of water caused this change, and I think, so can one word. It too, can slide into the conscious mind and spread circles of thoughts, touching many, causing change.
Writers drop words onto the pages of your lives. They create clarity or confusion, evoke emotion or emptiness. Poets use them for passion, politicians for power. Some draw you into their experience through a world of the senses, some leave you floundering, searching for the purpose. But each word, like a feather on water causes change.
Writing is like climbing the river hills. You reach the summit with sweat prickling your flesh, and your muscles screaming. Dragging at the air with greedy lungs, you gaze out over rolling vistas of distant fields, spring green against lavender and blue. As crickets saw their two-note tune, and bleached grass crackles around your feet, you look beyond the horizon and absorb the billowing clouds. The vision of those great towers of purest white on grey over blue, rolling, churning, racing across the sky, acts like the bead of water, poking a curious finger at your conscious thoughts. This picture of prairie power evokes awe or anxiety. The beholder draws out a precious memory, pushes away a frightening possibility – or gazes blindly – the potential beyond their grasp.
Writing is searching your subconscious depths for ultimate awareness, and mining what you discover. You form the words, drop them on the page, and let the resulting ripples carry you into new territory. Jubilant, you, too, look outward, and hope your words cause change.