The act of writing contemplative can command the risk involved, hold sway over it, if not control or dominate it, but that monumental feat requires language both elegant and eloquent, at once well-dressed so to be pleasing to the eye and ear and civil to the rest of the senses, but also persuasive and influential, so swaying as to be true to the feeling of being, the being of being, in its reporting.
Economy's critical to the selection or election of the words. At the very same time, often in the very same place and in a single breath, the language must captivate the attention, yet employ, sometimes at little or no pay, the least punctuation and the fewest words, even syllables, in order to order the words so to put up the least resistance to the chip that may well rest gently upon a reader's shoulders. [A word comes, later, on the precise difference between selection and election of words.]
Naturally, then, writing contemplative resorts to The Language of Poetry, though wording is not poetry as such. Make no mistake about this. The writer contemplative is no poet whose loyalty is to The Poem alone, no bard, rhymester or lyricist, whose influence godly is derived from, and arrived at, by paying allegiance to the barb, the rhyme, or the lyric. The writer can be said to be A Worder, so a poet of sorts, because of the language poetical, but no ordinary poet with schooling, or other training in that, necessarily. Such a writer, The Worder, finds focus one and one place alone, hermit-like.
The dwelling place of the worder is Hallowed Ground, not in words for their own sake but in the such ness of things in their thing ness, and for Heaven's Sake, that is shorthand to say, for the sake of All That Is Godly, good and merciful, right and just, true and meaningful, beautiful and pleasing, not just to the visual aesthetic eye, but to The Mind's Eye of one on the lookout for life's delight all around, in the spirit, at the seat of the soul.
