Yesterday I took my kayak out into the Everglades. I paddled across a lake through a series of

mangrove tunnels and then out into a remote lagoon where I fished for a while and then just sat.

My little boat rocked in gentle waves. An alligator surfaced, and upon seeing me, gently submerged and swam away.

An asprey hovered, curled like a fist, plunged into the water, and then rose shivering off spray, a fish wiggling in its talons. Then all seemed still for a while,

with only a whisper of wind riffling the lake. A swallow-tailed kite appeared, swooping and soaring in

silence, just above the mangroves, a graceful miracle in motion.

I felt full.

I simply needed to be there for a few hours out in the wild

just to listen, watch, observe,

all the more because I've been hunkered down

in what I call the writing cave,

a place where I am deep, deep, deep, deep into words, the words of this book,

in fact.

I felt I needed to shake off words, just as that Osprey had shaken off water.

I have a theory.

When our ancient ancestors developed the capacity for language, words became increasingly

all-encompassing.

Words became not only our primary way of engaging with others socially, but they also became

the tool by which we each conduct our own inner dialogue. Language became so powerful,

both interpersonally and intrapersonally, that the web of words in our heads often felt more real to us

than the web of life outside our heads.

Language we discovered was a tool we used to describe reality, but it also could become a substitute

...