I was writing a piece, earlier today, on the concept of baring — that idea of revealing, versus the other similarly sounding expression of bearing — which is more like “carrying” something. To bare, to lay open, uncovered — and to bear, or to cart, carry, hold and embrace.

I can’t bare it? Or, really, I can’t bear it. I can’t expose it — laid bare, for all to see? Or actually, I can’t bear the carrying of this — a burden — any longer.

Either way, there is meaning. Seeing a sign, as I was out scouting for imagery that can be twisted into a new telling, I did see that sign, for a shop that does, indeed, specialize in “bearings” — the hardened steel balls that fit in the rings of motioning objects to prevent heat, ware worn, and wear.

Writing, or digging into the writing of things that impact your sole, soul, there might be a point to the nature of how you are bearing the challenges that you face. Or better still, how you are loving what you CAN bear — that is, the love that you’re feeling, you’re experiencing, it’s so wonderful that bearing it is an exhilaration. Then too, two, to the idea of the contrary wording — to bare, to lie in the simplistic power of love, and to lie bare in the sheer exposure of it.

I do that, find the marveling in watching a lover bare the soul of message, emotion, the drawn calligraphy of passion, the scribbling gesture of love — fevered condition and enchantment. But there is a bearing in that experience as well.

In anything, there is a bearing, a carrying — that passing along of the story that is held; and then, too — as that story passes, one might be bearing it along; it is being held, carried along — something beautiful, in the flowing of the wintering river, ice — the plates of the timely — as I watch it all go by.


t | the island

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