Word Tsunami
The writer in me has been silent of late. It happens from time to time and, though it frustrates me, I’ve learned to live with the periods of time when the words aren’t there. I write trepidatiously even now, wondering if the words are really here.
Sometimes it’s a barrage of worldly words that takes mine away. I had been writing a reminiscence of my college years in Boston, when terror in that city struck the Pollyanna memory dumb on April 15th.
I suppose I had begun to lose my writing words in the wake of Newtown, Connecticut; as if that senselessness weren’t enough to strike us all mute. I didn’t listen to the media reports then. I know the grief of just one child’s relative personally, that rattles around in my head and weakens my heart, still.
To get away from the coverage I watched TCM here and there, or had NPR on at a low murmur in the background - and when the thoughts of those families came, I stopped and mourned for them and for us, their human family. There are no words for those moments of collective consciousness when the vast majority of us share the same emotions, so I just let the feelings wrap around me, untainted by the voices of CNN.
That’s where my words have gone these many months - to disaster after disaster - including multiple acts of violence at home and abroad, a devastating hurricane, and more than a few terrifying tornadoes. My inability to reason it all out with my ‘pen’ is even further fraught by those close to me who are shouldering the everyday burdens life brings us. I speak to them, knowing my words are not enough to soothe illness, rejection, or loss - hoping the emotions in my voice speak the care.
This is not to say I’m finding myself completely without the right words. No, on the contrary, my husband, our six-month old grandchild, and I carry on valuable conversations on a daily basis.They are some of the most reassuring dialogues to have come my way since the past year closed.
They have progressed from the basic, sweet cooings of a newborn to the eyeglass-grabbing squeals and songs of a full-bodied soprano. The baby sets the words and we repeat them, merrily.
We are all BFF’s, at this point, and have agreed upon a language based on musical sounds - some of which mean: “I want something now...this very instant” - others, like the sustained ‘ahhhhh’ that ushers from her lips when a breeze hits her face on an outdoor stroll, that say: “Does it get any better than this?”
I love how primitive and rich this dialogue is and believe it has awakened the written word in me. I’ve identified a place we share where new found words are driven by sounds and emotions.
Maybe we should all start communicating like this more often - ditch the friending, texting, blogging, liking, and linking. The words are getting in our way.
And here I am, adding to the tsunami, I know. I’m part of the problem that dilutes the truths we need to find right now - the ones that give us hope - Emily Dickinson’s “Thing with feathers.”
So I’ve spent some time in “Show, don’t tell,” and I rather like it there. Oh, there are words involved, but I try not to spend them unnecessarily. And I know I have to write; I’ve always had to write.
But I’m determined not to waste too many precious words. The good ones anyway.
