“A word has power in and of itself. It comes from nothing into sound and meaning; it gives origin to all things.” – N. Scott Momaday
Language speaks to me. The way it sounds, looks. The way certain words roll off the tongue and others stick. The way it can transport people into lives not their owns. The way it can speak truth and light—lies and darkness, too. The way it doesn’t always have the answers, stutters into silence.
I like it when the silence appears. It means I’m getting to the unknown place, the place where I have no idea where I’m going but have to keep going. I write. I dash off—
Emily Dickinson teaches me much about the power of words and the dash. Paul Celan, too. More recently, Madeleine L’Engle who also voices the power and limitations of words and language.
I say what I ought. I say what I ought not to. I don’t speak when I should. I can’t figure out what to say and wrestle and wrestle and wrestle. Like Jacob after his encounter with the angel, I emerge bruised, forever marked. I limp.
You will remember this time seems to be the message. You will remember that the words are not your own. They are a gift from the One who spoke the world into being, who upholds all things by the word of his power.
How often I turn them into a curse. Words are powerful and malleable. I know how to turn them to good effect. I know how to bless and praise, how to wound.
Out of the same mouth pours these things. I know this, but I don’t always shepherd the words. I forget despite the encounter with the angel. I leave them to their own devices, and they turn, become untamed lions, maul me and the world to pieces.
Once again I’m beaten, bloodied, and torn. Another scar to show, another memorial stone. I remember. I remember. The words are not my own. They are gifts that, oh, so easily turn into curses. They are powerful in and of themselves. I will remember. I will remember.
Image: Jon Fife (Creative Commons)