Talking
Talking
It is odd, really, that sometimes I need to say the
words. Out loud. To hear them formed into a sentence and
uttered. The crescendo and cadence and
the fortissimo of the spoken words. The
heat and the warmth come through, but they are not the same. We have all listened to the tenderness and
the anger of words. We know the difference. We know which is the desired and which is the
needed. We know.
Words that come easy, sometimes freely and in great
quantity, are generally from a place of security and freedom. To tell someone the parts of your day or
about the last call you had, or the fears that lay beneath and behind that
which is actually spoken is a thing that is a place of exposure. Freedom and creativity are timid, and to
actually arrive in the open is a very vulnerable thing. We know when it is good, and we exhale in
relief when we are done.
Putting the thoughts into words, and words into flight, we
are not in control of their destination or their effect. They are soon spoken; our control is then
released. They are like a butterfly,
really. Only moments before in the
cocoon, idol and unmoving to the outside world.
The thread of our thoughts wrapped around an idea that is needing to be
incubated until complete. Bursting forth
onto the new world of transformed life, they rest a moment to fix their wings
and then they burst forth in flight and color.
Fragile and yet alive, taken by the wind and the wing to places that we
cannot know. We ponder things in the
cocoon, in the dark recesses of our mind and what transforms is not what we
see. We see form and shape and dark,
until the cocoon is ready to burst. Only
then do we know of the color and the life these words have become.
Become. The point of
transition into something not previously there.
Thoughts into words, silence into hope.
Introspection into thanks. A simple
acknowledgement of being, spoken to one you did not know a moment before. The giver of service and support, a bus
driver or a passenger. A clerk or a
client. A simple word of awareness, of
being, that lands like a butterfly on your hand, like a simple glance, with a
thank you attached. Words…
Words can surprise, and they can be dark. Pulling out the infection that builds up
behind the oftentimes thin film of restraint.
Red and swelling, the pressure builds, and the words burst forth and
there is no secret anymore. The jealous
outburst of betrayal, of expectations violated.
Expostulations. I like that
word. It is seldom used, so there is
that. It sounds funny coming off of the
tongue, and it is accurately specific.
It is to put flight to frustration through spoken words. It gives birth
to hope of remediation of the pain, or at least relief for a bit. It is the cry in the night, to the stars, if
nothing else. To voice the anger of
being impotent against the pain and the relentless waves crashing on the beach
of my dreams. Dreams that were something other than they have turned-out to be…
The parent of a child debilitated by an accident of fate. The adult child
dealing with the parent that has turned angry or withdrawn by dementia. The pain of the intractable and the seemingly
unfair actions of a capricious world turned dark. It is curious that the one that caught the baseball and received the accolades, did so by getting me out…
While we are all on this journey and know not what tomorrow
brings, we build the cocoon with each thought and pondering unspoken. We find a friend or we “vent” to no one in
particular. So, I ask this question;
what of sending “hope” forward. Not to
pretend that darkness is not here, but all the more within the dark forest of
doubt and despair, sending forth a word that burns bright in that
darkness. Real and true and visceral
hope, spoken forth like a sword of truth slashing down the webs and branches
that block the sun. Why is it always a
surprise? CS Lewis wrote a book called
“Surprised by Joy” and the idea is the same.
Why is it a surprise? For my part
in this I can say that it is a darkness that descends slowly rather than gets
shut off like a switch. As such I get
acclimated to the graying of the hope. It gets diluted somehow, until it seems
rather dark indeed. As such the
twinkling of awareness brings a stark contrast to the dark that is pierced by
that light, and we exclaim with surprise, well perhaps.
We that enjoy the variety of the butterfly oft ignore the role
of the caterpillar. Some are
ignominious, and some are creatively made.
So are the thoughts that build their cocoons around them for protection. Time to transform, a safe place to hide, a
place to rest. Alone to process during
that time. Before they become words set
free. This place that the thoughts go is
an unknown thing, they just go there.
Waiting and waiting more. Some
tales of stories are nothing more than word salads with no substance to
them. Others are hearty and full of adventures and trials, of pain and struggle and scars.
Given time they may come to a place of release and freedom. Other tellers of tales carry the aroma of
bitter betrayal and the knowledge of the vanquished. Some had dreams of the valiant soldier and
were only little more than the one that mucked out the stalls of the nobleman’s
steed. In the time of battle, they were
in the middle of the nothingness when overrun by the savages and mistreated on
the way. Ignoble, small, impish and of
no threat. Impotent against the cancer
and the amputation, the addiction and the shortened reach of the arm with no
grasp… where are the bold words now.
Like the others, these thoughts transform into the flight of
the one that would speak. That would
finally release the pain through the speaking of it. Transforming the cocoon
into a former abode, a place of another story set free by the telling. To tell of that transition from restrained to
released from the prison of fears. The
fears of telling the tale to ourselves for then it would be true, indeed. But now it has been set free to fly in the
wind. Transformed from thought to
word. From prison to release. And we know.
Sometimes I need to say the words. To hear them cross my tongue as they spill
out on the universe, alive somehow.
Real, in some way. Mine. It is curious that once they are free to fly
about, I am no longer in command. I tell
you “thanks”, or “well done” and I am no longer the one that commands the
effect on you. To tell a child,
struggling with the lace of their shoe, good job when they are done is to
release their brain from struggle to victory, and they remember your
words. So too, when you are the giver of
help and joy and praise. A word of hope
to the one that needs it. And we all
need it. And we know. Say the word, it wants to be free.
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