Between Wool and Work

It should have been there, between wool and work. Were my eyes deceiving me? How could something so foundational be omitted? It is core, central, indispensable. It paints vivid pictures, being “sharper than any two-edged sword,” a “lamp to my feet,” “pure as silver tried in a furnace,” and “sweeter than honey to my mouth.” It stands forever. It was in the beginning. But, it was not there, there where it should have been intentionally set – between wool and work…

The last two DVDs I rented were Adaptation and The Soloist. By mere coincidence these two very different movies, share a common dilemma. In both, lead characters (Charlie Kaufman in Adaptation and Steve Lopez in The Soloist) are writers, struggling to get stories onto screen and paper.

I am not a professional writer. I do not make a living by writing words. That is, unless by “living” one means the sustaining of one’s soul. In that case, I must confess that there is a lot of Charlie and Steve in me. I go a little nuts, get a little feverish and peevish when words fail me. And lately I’ve been existing between wool and work, between that which wraps me in sleep and that which occupies nearly every waking moment.

Charlie’s and Steve’s struggles with the written word were complex and unique. I would never presume to suggest what might have coaxed the stories from their hearts and minds. I do know the source of that which causes the words to flow from my soul. It is that which (for whatever the reasons of the editors of my Bible concordance) was left unnamed, yet is always, repeatedly, unfailingly there.


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