I went to Nature seeking answers; she is always generous. I was looking for my 2023 word, the word by which I’d measure all things, a sort of rudder, my version of a New Year’s Resolution. I thought the verb “muse” might be perfect. I liked the pondering meaning of the verb with the sassy Greek goddess hinted at by the noun. It was all fun, but having an idea isn’t seeking; it’s looking for confirmation, and confirmation was not forthcoming. I’m laughing. Muse as a noun and muse as a verb aren’t even related etymologically. The verb is from the Latin musus, “mouth of an animal”, an image of open-mouthed wonder. Musus is also the source of the word muzzle. No, thank you.

I’ve also been thinking about the preciousness vs. volume of words, which adds to the mental anguish. Laugh with me.

This all started with learning about the Stone Drums of Qin, the oldest stone inscriptions in China. The estimated 700 characters carved into granite stones are at least 2,500 years old. What was so painstakingly inscribed? Poetry, a fact I find delightful. If one was limited to 700 characters today, what words would be worthy?

Think about this: before the printing press, Scribes hand-copied documents. It was the only way to duplicate text. It took a Scribe fourteen months to copy a Bible; that’s a noble commitment. Imagine the preciousness of the resulting text. Would our culture employ someone for over a year if it was the only way to own a book? What book would it be?

Today, the written word is simple to generate. We post on social media, reaching thousands of people. It’s easy. Maybe too easy. I’ve had a Grammarly account for less than two years; it’s checked close to a million words. That’s mind-boggling. Is this ego-driven? Frivolous? Do my words spark reflection or simply add to the chaos?

Learning about the Stone Drums inspired me to consider how precious and varied words are. Choosing the correct one is worthy of the time invested, a nod to the history of carving and copying—a form of self-editing. I’ll remember. I write that timidly as the extreme of self-editing is a blank page.

Lao Tzu says, “Those who know don’t speak; those who speak don’t know.” I don’t know. That is why I write. This chapter of the Tao Te Ching is my permission to “speak” or continue to speak. That probably wasn’t the intended conclusion. Again, I laugh.

These thoughts spin and wrestle in my mind. I love words and ideas. I’m not going to stop thinking/writing. They are the same to me. I give up. I surrender to this dilemma of sharing vs. overloading others with words.

Surrender? Is that my word? Surrender is defeated and passive.

Yield maybe?

Yes.

Yield.