Things are lifted up out of the faces of the world, brought to roost in one home intangibly, through suggestion. That is how I feel about reading. It is all so improbable. That out of all these conversations, a few words could be lifted out to create a pattern. Not just a pattern, but music. A movement that picks up and leaves off, like a generous teacher. Finding you, leading you, letting you go. Most improbable of all though, that someone once thought it would be a good thing to do in the first place. What need did that person see? Or perhaps it was joy, confusion, heartbreak.
I guess I thought about this because I wanted something to speak, and things are always speaking. With voices! That is love.
