This morning I went walking in Fort Tryon Park and saw a long ribbon of snow. It seems to have fallen off the top of the bench but stayed intact, even sagging.
I thought, as I walked, about how, when you wake up from dreams, the words don’t fall into place immediately. They wobble for a little while. I wondered whether that might be part of the role of dreams: to detach us, even momentarily, from the utilitarian function of words. If, for a few minutes each morning, we lack ready-made phrases, maybe we can think about things in a different way. I was thinking about a book I had just finished rereading. Eleven years had passed between the first reading and now. As I walked up the hill (before this photo–this was on the way down), it occurred to me that I did not have to say anything about the book. I could keep my thoughts to myself until I wanted to say something. In the meantime, the world would do just fine without my review.
Day after day, we are urged to cast our instant reactions in words and numbers. To withhold an opinion is to risk offending the automated deities. But look beyond all that clatter and chatter, and there is the possibility of silence. I don’t mean that silence is always better. Each of us makes distinct choices about when and when not to speak. The point is that one can choose.
So I walked past these benches and this near-infinite tree, whose branches stretch into smaller branches, which stretch into brushes of twigs. I heard my boots crunching in the snow. Up here, I was all alone. But there were ski tracks, dog tracks, footprints from earlier, maybe from yesterday. In my mind, these turned into sounds of gliding, crunching, and frisking.
The sun came up, the snow fell in ribbons, and phrases shone on the ground. I returned home and revised my twelfth chapter.