![]() Finally, the stone (being inedible) is removed from the pot, and a delicious and nourishing pot of soup is enjoyed by travelers and villagers alike. More and more villagers walk by, each adding another ingredient, like potatoes, onions, cabbages, peas, celery, tomatoes, sweetcorn, meat (like chicken, pork and beef), milk, butter, salt and pepper. Another villager walks by, inquiring about the pot, and the travelers again mention their stone soup which has not yet reached its full potential. The villager, who anticipates enjoying a share of the soup, does not mind parting with a few carrots, so these are added to the soup. The travelers answer that they are making "stone soup", which tastes wonderful and which they would be delighted to share with the villager, although it still needs a little bit of garnish, which they are missing, to improve the flavor. One of the villagers becomes curious and asks what they are doing. Then the travelers go to a stream and fill the pot with water, drop a large stone in it, and place it over a fire. Upon their arrival, the villagers are unwilling to share any of their food stores with the very hungry travelers. Writing is the way one selects the stars hanging from the infinite sky above, bringing each down to earth where they can be admired for their beauty, truth, and vastness.Some travelers come to a village, carrying nothing more than an empty cooking pot. When I write, the so-called significant and insignificant all matter equally, because I am the writer, I am the experiencer, and I can choose what matters. I write to to remember these significant things, but I also write to get to know the insignificant things: how the crunch of bright red fall leaves feel under my shoes, the way the sunlight used to fall on the stained carpet of the staircase of my childhood home, the tickle of my blonde hair on my cheeks when I drive with the car windows down. I write to feel the pain and the loss because it proves I had something valuable to begin with. ![]() Writing sheds light on this tucked away darkness, filling me with warmth but also heightening my awareness of these dark and cold corridors of my soul. Writing reminds me that there was once a time when we were a family, and that I once carried innocence and naivety before it slipped from my hands. It plucks my mom, dad and sister from their separated worlds, erases the heartache of divorce and loss, and places them at the kitchen table where we chewed our broccoli, glancing out the bay window onto the suburban grassy backyard where I used to run barefoot catching fireflies. Writing transports me to the home where I grew up. It is the writer’s duty to not only transcribe, but to sculpt and position the written word so that the meaning transcends the letters in the same way a musician must discover the melody of a song by allowing the notes to settle the way they ought to. This translation is challenging because certain emotions and feelings cannot fit squarely into the box of a word. ![]() It is magic to take the misty, convoluted, collection of thoughts that cloud in one’s mind and grasp them, turning the gaseous mist into solid form for yourself and others to understand. All written word speaks truth in some way, as writing transcends common interpretation and strikes a deeper chord in the soul that acknowledges that life is not what we experience but what we think about what we experience. It considers the crucial importance of the easily overlooked. Writing stretches time it revives what has passed and reaches forward, brushing fingertips with the unknown future. One is able to descend from the relentless pressing forward of time and hold the past, present, or future, to cherish it, mourn it, pick it to pieces, put it to rest. Writing gifts the pen-holder more time with a moment.
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