the beauty of the unspeakable
the beauty of the unspeakable
on not having the right words
For lack of a better term, I’ll tell you to drive safe and to text me when you get home. I mean that I need you to be safe, to make it home unscathed, to remain alive and intact. I mean that you mean the world to me, that I feel somehow responsible for your wellbeing in this moment. I mean that I’m so glad we got to spend time together. I mean that just incase you feel like no one is waiting up for you to get home, I am.
For lack of a better term, I’ll tell you that your outfit is “so cute.” But I mean that I hope you know I see your effort to present yourself in a certain way, to make a good impression. I see that vulnerable self that stands in front of the mirror and picks at her face and worries about her thighs. I mean that you look great and I don’t really care what you look like. I mean that I’m just glad you showed up as yourself, as someone I recognize.
For lack of a better term, I’ll ask you how I can support you. I mean that I’m here, fully present, attentive to your pain. I mean that I’ll do my best to witness all that you are without trying to change you. Though I would try if it meant something to you. I mean that I see how burdened you are and that if you would let me, I’d carry some of the weight. I mean sharing the burden with you would be a gift to me.
For lack of a better term, I’ll text you that I miss you. I mean to say that I miss our in-person conversations—laughing from our bellies and being able to read your face. I mean that I think about texting you far more than I do. I mean that you are irreplaceable to me. There’s no one who communicates with me like you do, who matters to me in the way you matter to me. I mean that I don’t know anyone like you and I have no doubt that I ever will.
“It all means more than I can tell you. So you must not judge what I know by what I find words for.” —Marilynne Robinson, Gilead
Words are my best friend and biggest enemy. I’m often frustrated by my lack of vocabulary and reliance on trite expressions. (However, my therapist did recently tell me that she likes how I use odd words that people don’t often use—a high compliment in my book.)
More than the words I choose, I think my problem is that I feel so much more than I know how to communicate. I feel overwhelmed by small gestures and tearful at tender acts of good humans. I feel really desperate sometimes and really hopeful others. There aren’t words for these binaries that often exist within me, within us.
In recovery programs—recovery from whatever vice grips us—often the first step towards healing is to name the problem. Think about the members of AA who make introductions by naming themselves and by naming their addiction. Naming things gives power and empties it out all at once—another binary.
The unspoken lingers over us like a fog. Clarity is revealed only when we mold the unspoken into words and forms. This often means kneading our feelings like dough. Letting our feelings rise and fall. Feeding the dough and allowing it to breath. Eventually tasting the fruit of our labor.
The words “love” and “miss” and “sorry” and “help” rarely, if ever, capture all that I mean. Relying on these words often feels like asking a child to complete an adult task—it is unreasonable. I know that.
I’ll keep trying, though, to say what I mean.
Beauty from the Week—
I’m currently reading “The Passion According to G.H.” by Clarice Lispector. I’m very obsessed. However, if you aren’t into philosophical books (or weird books) you’ll probably hate this lol.
A website I’ve been frequenting is The Paris Review. I love all of the interviews with authors they have archived on their website.
Lastly, the weather. The weather in Houston has been amazing. It’s so nice not to be suffocated when walking outside, lol.
All for now!
Catherine