The Limits of Language

Reaching for words when insight strikes.

There’s so much I’m coming to know about myself that I can’t yet clearly articulate.

I wish I could form every insight into a jewel on the page, sparkling and contained; I wish the insights could sequentially form a story.

Instead, new knowledge just glistens inside of me. I try to capture it with words, but they feel like grains of sand slipping through my hands, or stars that I’m trying to coalesce into some sort of constellation. 

Sometimes I’m lucky and insight arrives straight from the sky, fully formed; I race to jot it down, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to pull up my Notes app or whipping out a piece of paper, sketching. In the lulls between, I sit at my desk and start writing as a feeble attempt to try to coax it out of me. I end up looking out the window, simply waiting, listening.

I sit and wait a lot these days, then jostle the energy by wiggling and walking. 

In time, the insights become sharper and more defined, and I write down what I can.

Eventually, they prompt outward action as they become internally engrained, forming a new way of being. “Wisdom,” some might say.

This is a process.

Friends ask me what I’m learning, and I want to give them a treasure chest of jewels. Instead, I say, “so much,” which feels like a heap of sand. I wish I had more for them – but at least I have facets.

Just not the entire jewel yet. That will come. In the meantime, I make peace with collecting shards, and simply glistening.

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash