Words.

I had an English professor in high school who loved words. He would read pages out from books during class, and I would watch as he rolled the words around in his mouth like a fine wine, savoring the transition of consonant to vowel and back again, lingering lovingly over the sonorous tones, cherishing — almost caressing — the shapes with his tongue. It didn’t matter if it was poetry or prose or a chapter from his beloved Harbrace college handbook, his go-to writing bible. Any word — every word — was worshipped. Misuse was a sin.

I have never been nearly as enamored with words. They have been utilitarian — a means of representing, if clumsily, ideas and concepts. An attempt to communicate, but nothing more. At times, they have been a source of frustration, a haystack in which no amount of searching would ever, ever, yield that long sought after needle that would perfectly pierce through meaning with clarity and concision. Words have been, largely, a curse.

Of late, however, I have noticed this relationship with words growing, changing. I hope, evolving. I am beginning to taste them instead of merely reading them, searching for that hint of some exotic spice or comforting herb that will bring the dish that is my writing to life.

It is a much more fulfilling relationship.