When Words Fail

As I was sitting at my writing desk this morning, sunlight beginning to work its way into the eastern windows, doing my morning free writing (for the first time in a while), one word eluded me. I was describing the frost on my solar panels outside my southern windows. Frost is crystalized dew, so, naturally, my thoughts turned to condensation and evaporation. The respiration of the day.

And that is when words failed me.

I wanted to capture the feeling of the dew releasing itself from the panels and returning to the…air? Air just isn’t pungent enough. I wanted to describe the dew being squeezed from the morning to lave the face of the earth then, in the face of the day, retreating into…

The air?

Please.

But that’s what it is. The cool evening air holds the dew until it warms to just the right temperature, then it places little drops on every flat surface. Little domes of moisture littering the landscape. In some places much drier than the Western North Carolina mountains, these droplets are the sum total of hydration for the creatures who live there. Little beetles grow ridged backs to condense and collect the scant moisture in the air. It’s gorgeous.

But still. Air.

Just the everything and everywhere of my walking around. Light enough I don’t have to shoulder my way through it; essential enough I have never, in my forty-one years, gone two minutes without it.

Air. An r controlled vowel digraph. Said with not much more effort than breathing. I wanted a more eloquent phrase, a more profound syllable, even, a more impressive word, but air is my boon companion. How dare I scoff.

Air, thank you.

Love,

An Ardent Adherent