“In a clearing in the woods a dark, short, old woman stands. She gives me something, a cup, a nest, a basket, I am not sure what she gives me, though I take it. She cannot speak to me, for her language is dead. She is silent. I am silent. All the words have gone.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin, Searoad
What’s left when all the words have gone? What if, in this territory we traverse, the architecture of words is not a fit?
In ruins now, at our feet. Bare soles on cold ground, a crow calling to our left.
We stand, scanning the forest. We stand, surveying remnants of words and the wildness in their place.
Filling all cracks and spaces. Overgrowing what once seemed certain.
Caressing. Enveloping. Eating us alive.
The Law of Life is to increase. The Law of Life does not centre words and does not centre humanness.
So fragile here, in its midst. So naked and fleeting and…ridiculous.
Imagining we prevail. Presuming we’re in charge of…anything.
Where are you, when language is dead and the words have gone?
Where are you, when your humanness and Box of God get broken?
It’s not far off, you know.
It’s as near as the trees and the earth and the birdsong.
It’s as present as our next breath and last breath and all that comes after.
Life will increase. Life will prevail.
Taking us in, again. Taking us where we are silent, all is silent, only wind and star songs.
Dearest Reader,