It is Winter. Ravens are standing on a pile of bones -- black typeface on white paper picking an idea clean. It's what I do each time I sit down to write. What else are we to do with our obsessions? Do they feed us? Or are we simply scavenging our memories for one gleaming image to tell the truth of what is haunting us?
"To write", Marguerite Duras remarked, "is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly."
Today there is a fresh field of snow -- no visitations by ravens, just a pristine landscape wiped clean by a blizzard. What I wouldn't give to follow my mother's tracks before she covered hem up with her silence.
My mother was a great reader. She left me her journals, and all her journals were blank. I believe she wanted them read. How do I read them now?
I am afraid of silence. Silence creates a pathway to peace through pain, the pain of a distracted and frantic mind before it becomes still.
Terry Tempest Williams
When Women Were Birds: Fifty Four Variations on Voice
To win one of two copies of this incredible tome, be sure to check out the April Moon 15 giveaway!