Recently, I was introduced to Mr. Berry’s poem in an opportune email.
It immediately thrust me face-to-face with the main character of my script. My heart ached as I stood before her, for I yearned that she go among the trees and be still. I dreamt of listening to her sing her song.
Eager to draw nearer to my main character, I scribbled the poem over and over, reciting its verses, absorbing its meaning. And as I intimately connected with her, I grew frustrated by what I found. There is no hint of a song. There is no hope for a miraculous transformation. Rather, I encountered a woman who cannot live for a while with her fear. A woman unwilling to be mute in her consternations.
My frustration soon turned to sorrow, so I turned to pen and paper for relief.
Link to Wendell Berry’s poem.