So I was a little nonplussed when a recent review of my little wordy world came back with a review, along the lines of �You�ve sure got the gift of gab.�

The gift of gab��

I suppose it would be a bit elitist to assume that what I let pour from my brain to the page might be taken as something more than �gab�. A lot less than art, maybe a little more than notes on the refrigerator.

What we write, and how we do it. It never fails to fascinate. There is no thought to composing or grammar so embedded within that can overtake the ride we go on when the mind is free, the pen or keys are oiled beneath the fingers and operating smoothly. Long rides we take indeed, on that sleigh. We pass by snow-covered houses and farms, the horse steady in front of us, an engine of flesh and hooves needing no touch of the whip. We travel places familiar, we watch our day go by with a wave and a word, a record of having passed by here, to take out and look at again in a week, a lifetime.

It makes us glad in ourselves, this thing. What spoken word cannot do. The combinations of the things given us to forms symbols and shapes on the page. The strange result of what began as bloody hands on a cave wall.

Hmmm, gab. Indeed.

The gab that binds.

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