Over he last few decades we have been inundated by a torrent of words. Wherever we go we are surrounded by words: words softly whispered, loudly proclaimed, or angrily screamed; words spoken, recited, or sung; words on records, in books, on walls, or in the sky; words in many sounds, many colors, or many forms… words which flicker off and on, move slowly, dance, jump, or wiggle.
A twenty something rambles on about living life… really living life, he says. His words bubble like a bottomless Coca-Cola, sweet and sticky. He spills them on internet pages and podcasts. They’re splashed across screens just like this one. He is aspiring. He’ll tell you, even if you don’t ask.
Mike calls, tells me he’s heard about a family struggle. He listens to the story, offers “mm-hmms” and the occasional “I’m sorry.” When I’m finished he says nothing, allows the silence to hang. Then he says, “I have no words, but I’ll sit with you if you want.” The silence hangs again, and I feel the shaking cedars still. I feel my bones harden like steel. I feel the possibility of solidarity, the endless proliferation of hope.