Words have never been my strongest suit.
For instance, the scent of the mogra and the gulab, the chandan or the champa, that I light daily during devotions or ordinary routines such as the washing of the dishes speak as much to me as the words playing over the radio during the NPR news. The sound of the river that I frequent speaks as well to me; as does the dappling, off-on patterning of the sunlight and shadow through the leaves to the path; as does the sensation of the grip and give of the dirt and vegetal matter through the soles of my shoes on the soft earth by the water as I walk. More often this input is more favorably received by me than verbal language.
Why then would I begin a blog?
Dear reader, it is because I wish to address this, my prickly relationship with the written and spoken word. I know of no other way to do so then to practice writing. Those who know me might suggest that I have ample opportunity to do so, as I am a graduate student in special education. Plenty of writing, that, dear neroli, you might say. And you would be correct. It is for the abundance of graduate writing that I need to practice the
practice of writing.
A colleague with whom I will no longer be working gave me a parting gift: she told me that I would just have to get over my displeasure of writing. Thank you, Miss B, you are absolutely right.
So here I am.
