Larry and I visited the Tellus Museum a while ago with our friends Bobby and Wendy. The Tellus had this amazing display of rocks and minerals. I stood for the longest time, running my eyes back and forth over the surfaces, noting the texture with my mind even though my fingers were kept at bay by the display case. I saw sparkles and dark ridges, ripples and abundant colors. These inanimate objects seemed to brim with life waiting for someone to come along and understand their story. Not being a geologist, I felt inadequate to interpret the story of those stones. Any observer could see obvious layers of stresses and signs that something had happened although I was powerless to tell you what and when.
This morning I’ve been working on revising my novel, turning the words, paragraphs, pages and the story itself this way and that. I run my mind over its texture, questioning whether I should polish that rough spot or keep it for its raw beauty. I feel somewhat inadequate in telling the story–even of these creations of my own mind. But rather than feeling powerless, I am embracing the powerful practice of writing.