Day 22: Words, not my own.

Dear friends,

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On Day 22 of this month of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the bounty of words that spill into my life.

For as long as I can remember, words have captured the world for me. Those I scoured, those I savored, those little understood, those I wrote tiny and tucked away in miniature diaries, even those on the back of cereal boxes which I faithfully read during childhood breakfasts were worthy of my attention.

Words meant something, I thought, when written down. I’d seen too many words spoken carelessly — false promises and glib answers and half-truths hanging in the air like an inconvenient fog you hoped would have broken by now. Words on paper were gospel, their power evident in stately fonts printed in black ink on crisp, white paper, and I aimed to harness some of that power for myself until I got sidetracked somewhere south of 20.

To this day, nothing moves me like the written word. I read as widely and voraciously as time and multiple distractions allow. I use every opportunity afforded me to add new and interesting words to my vocabulary, like exogenous, which I heard for the first time last month while listening to National Public Radio in my car and which compelled me to immediately pull over so I could look it up on my iPhone and commit its meaning to memory.

A new book came in the mail today — a late birthday gift for Mr. Mom — with the beautiful title “The heart of everything that is.” I might steal it from his bedside table before he has the chance to crack it. Half my ancestors are white and half are Native American and I’ve always sided with the brown skinned bunch. (It’s the subversive in me.) I knew Mr. Mom would enjoy the story and I figured I might learn something.

Speaking of learning something, read as much as you can. There’s so much to be gained, even from cheap fiction (okay, maybe not 50 Shades of Drivel), amateur poetry, weak news reporting, propaganda. The worst, most lazy, most hateful writing tests your heart, I think, while the most soaring and intelligent prose shapes your sensibilities and your intellect in ways not easily squandered.

Read. Form an opinion. Discuss.

Rinse and repeat for the sake of humanity.

With gratitude {for all the delicious words I’ve ever read},

Joan, who implores you to read this essay, the most beautiful piece of writing to come her way in a long time, and who hopes you’ll drop back by after reading and let her know what you thought of it

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Comments

  1. “…half-truths hanging in the air like an inconvenient fog you hoped would have broken by now.” Now that’s a lovely string of words, Joan-Marie. Thank you for sharing the This Land piece, which should enter the literary canon of essays immediately.

  2. What a powerful story. I’m not ready to summarize my reaction (it seems weak by comparison) but I can say I am deeply grateful to you for bringing these words to my eyes.

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