The Power of Language

About ten years ago, I met a priest visiting from South Africa, and he had a very exciting interpretation of the book of Genesis. He began with the etymology of the name “Adam” -- stating that Adam was like an “atom” a single part of the whole, a singular expression of God. He continued with the story of Eve, and then moved on to the animals. This is the part that has haunted me since I met the priest! God brought each animal to Adam and asked him to “name” the animals -- and so they were. The significance here, is in the power of words. By naming something, an animal, event, emotion, etc. you call that something into being. You suggest. Words create. If a day is bad or good -- is all a matter of the words you choose to describe the day. In this chapter of Genesis, God gave Adam language and the power to call a particular reality into being. We, humans, create worlds with our words.

What do I suggest? What realities do I want to call into being? My greatest desire is to write. I have always viewed writing as an opportunity to transcend one’s physical reality by taking the writer’s thoughts and words and soul -- and giving it space to exist outside of the self. And when the words are read, life is breathed into those same thoughts again and again. The ideas transcend one being and are offered up to the whole.

I have often thought that we die like stars die. All the time burning. And final death is not a big moment, but a small one. It is the moment when there was no more fuel or spark. We have been giving away our “spark,” our soul, the whole time through expressions of energy, love and creativity. Writing is what my soul is supposed to do with its spark -- with its star-fire.

But what does my soul want to say? And where do the words come from? Sufi poet Rumi asked the same question in his poem “Who Says Words with My Mouth” over 800 years ago:

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,

and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.

When I get back around to that place,

I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,

I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,

but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

Where do the words come from? The self or the Self? At some point, they are the same: an expression or reflection of the same Divine energy that runs through all beings, be it love or light burning… burning... The truth is I don’t know “where words come from -- who says words with my mouth?” In part, they are a patchwork of all the other words and worlds of my experiences woven together to form a new whole. Faith is more in trusting that this set of words have meaning and can exist apart from the whole on their own.