Writing has felt like searching more than saying lately; morning pages, like probing for a light-switch, instead of illuminating with the mind. So I’ve sided with silence more often: cupped the child’s mouth, barring the reflex to linguify what I find. Instead, I’ve stayed in the shadow of speech a little longer, repeating to myself that there’s truth and clarity here — there, in the unseen and unsaid. More truth maybe. In this quiet I walk in the woods. I’m with a carpenter