In the beginning, there is a word, a word of power.
The first appearance is by inspiration; it arises like magic in the mind of one with an open heart. The inspired one, the keeper of the word, passes it to a few who follow. The followers pass the word to a few more, and they pass it on, and on it goes.
The word represents an idea that changes everything: societies, languages, customs, individual lives. It spreads like a virus, morphing from language to language, growing in strength and followers.
A simple word creates a revolution.
Finally, the keeper, the one who first thought and spoke the word, dies. Those who remain behind must try to understand and honor the word of power. As time passes, some with less open hearts begin to fear it and try to contain it through interpretation and law. Others carve it in gold and ivory and place it on display, then bow to it without understanding.
Dark hearts misconstrue it, to harness the power for their own purposes.
Generations later, the word is laden with analysis and decoration, but almost devoid of meaning. Its message grows weak. The word’s power becomes hidden behind clouds of confusion and cooptation.
But like the sun, the word of power is always there, strong and shining, behind the clouds, waiting for us to hear it, to know it, waiting for another open heart to appear.
The word waits to begin again.