A few years ago, I used to write more often than I do now, more freely in spirit than I do now. But even then, my words were measured in the literary sense, like a cook who scoops up a tablespoon of sugar, a teaspoon of salt, and levels the top off flat with a knife, not more than is wanting and not less than is needed, my writing was a measure of something. I suppose inside the oven of my heart, when finally the meal was ready to be taken out out, there were the words, a swallow of sweetness, of morsel of meat, a bite of bitterness, always the truth, more than anything, I wrote the truth.
I havenât written in a long time, but that doesnât mean there arenât words in the oven; heated words, the kind that scald; sumptuous words, the kind sexually fulfilling; terrible words, the kind that slash and draw blood; and most importantly, soft words, the kind that love deeply. Though I donât commit them to print, theyâre here nonetheless, transforming inside me, a poison and a treasure, a curse the color of coal and a spell as luminous as gold.
A friend close to me once said, âEdward, your words have a certain austerity, and thatâs what makes them meaningful.â Iâll admit, I had to look up the word to understand whether that was a compliment or not. Bless her soul, she saw right through me. I am a man of austerity, and through the years, Iâve become even more so, austere in the truest sense of the word, strict even, in where my words are placed. I canât say I even measure them now, I simply keep them.
However, when my guard is down, and when the spirit of kindness kisses the back of my shoulders, when laughter takes ahold of me and flies me through the sky to enchanting places, when fingers on the keys of a piano draw deeply from my well, raw emotions spill over my lap, and austerity is not a word you would find cooking in my oven, or sewn to my shirt, or anywhere written on my face. Rather, I become generous, lavish, and carefree, and those are the moments when I love myself the most and I feel weightless, powerful, and brave. I only wish⌠I knew how to be as generous as I am when I love, all the time. Love is just a four letter word, and austerity is so long in comparison. It would seem so easy to write love, and austerity so hard, but therein lies the riddle, that sometimes the easiest words to write are the long ones, whilst the short ones are elusive, a purity of feeling, for flying on carpets or on horseback, for tears in symphony hall, for being brave in a foreign land, and for being bathed in the light of love.
This hasnât been about words at all, or writing, itâs all about love, and loving, and here I find myself again, more than anything, talking about truth.
