I have a tumultuous relationship with words. Sometimes they are easy, serve me well, trip from my fingers like a shattering, sparkling waterfall, simple and pretty. Interesting, even. And they have served me well when the waterfall is internal weeping flowing out a perfect imperfect accolade for what formerly was but internal. A starting point, a resting point, a recollecting point. And I think that stormier part of my word-relationship has been told to be quiet for far too long. Continue reading