I’m speaking about a home. I’ve spoken a home out of wood.
I’ve constructed a home using word.
I’m building it out of wood, so thankfully I’m able to use word
—I’m not sure how I could proceed otherwise.
I planted trees.
But the only place I could plant was into the wood—so I had to use word.
The word I’m using isn’t exactly homemade, but neither is the wood.
Much of it was generously given to me,
and the rest I purchased at a very costly price
—I’m not sure how I could proceed otherwise.
These are worden walls, carved out of a wooden floor,
and, for now, it provides a space for us to share
—and for this I am deeply grateful.
I’m sure you’ve noticed that it’s not finished yet.
And if I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not really sure how to complete it.
No matter how seamlessly I’ve used word, this never ceases to be so thoroughly wooden.
And perhaps I should consider this a good thing.
It seems like it would be a real shame (and a real naïveté) to forget this woodenness
—as though all of this is only word all the way down.
I’m often tempted to see only word.
I’m tempted to think that I can say what I mean here, but my experience teaches that
the wood never fully permits it.
In times of hot weather, the word (perhaps unfortunately) often appears wooden.
And some make the profound mistake of considering this wooden word wordless.
Such confusions seem to be the result of forgetfulness,
and the result is almost always sloppy building.
I’m not pointing fingers here; I, too, have a hard time remembering
that the deep has been held by the flat, without either destroying the other.
Wood has always been so hospitable to word, and for this I am deeply grateful.
The wooden continually opens itself to becoming worden, making it possible for us to build homes: places to occupy, places for dwelling together
—I’m not sure how we could proceed otherwise.