The Lull of Language

It's Friday afternoon just after lunch. I have spent the first five hours of my work day doing online research, writing grants and trying to avoid a conversation about a co-workers English 101 course. My brain is screaming for some creative activity and my oh-so-favorite song "How to Save a Life" is on the radio (truly, it's time for this song to find a life in the next world. If I could stab it with a sword, I would).

I have been thinking recently about the power of naming something (putting a name to something). Many years ago, in a very different state, I taught an introduction to college class in an adult education program. As a part of the course, we talked about writing and words. We are overwhelmed with words in modern media - written, spoken, sung, lit by fluorescent lights, driven on cars, in cars, personally carried on iPods, cell phones, Blackberries, daily newspapers. So easily we forget the power and mystery of words, and the unprecedented ability of humans to use words.

When Harper was first born, Asher had many words (often in his own language). He used them sparingly as punctuations to his activities. Within two days of Harper's life, Asher jumped to linking two words with the phrase "two babies" (pronounced French-like, "deux bebes" and first put forth as I carried both my children out of their bedroom). Today, he talks nonstop. On my last drive up to Fort Collins, he talked for 45 minutes without pause. Harper, bless her, took a nap. Already, as I wearily answer questions, I am forgetting what a feat it was for Asher to learn a word (and for me to figure out what his word meant. How did "ga ga" come to mean truck?), to link two words together and then to speak in full sentences (now full days!).

There is a mystery to how humans use words, a God-given skill, and a power. Ruling over all the animals, man is given the task of naming the animals at the genesis of the world. "Now the LORD God had formed out of the ground all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name." (Genesis 2:19) Words tame, order, and also call out.

My favorite Greek word is "logos." It's a word with many layers that we translate into English ineptly as "word" and crudely with several words, such as thought, speech, account, meaning, reason, proportion, principle, standard, discourse and logic. Logos is the kind of word that you can only catch the meaning of without the taming and ordering of words (no word for "word"), in a lull of language.

How much logos gained in its language use - established as meaning the fundamental order of the cosmos in Western philosophy by Heraclitus and later, used to mean Christ. My favorite Bible passage, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it." (John 1:1-5) Here Word is translated from the Greek, logos. I get goosebumps - the intertwining of Christ, God, words, logos, the mystery of God and the trinity, the power of Christ - so represented by the word "logos," in a place that you might get a glimpse of a place without words.

There are times, like Wednesday night, when I want a break from words, when I want to lie in a hammock and swing silently in the lull of language. It is a desire that arose because I am in a relational place between words, between naming, and my minds wants to rush to naming but also fears naming. Michael and I are making moves towards reconciliation. In this nebulous state - separate homes, hearts feeling out if reunion is possible, worthwhile, safe, hearts wishing to be known by another heart that was the best at eliciting wrenching pain - there is no name beyond "reconciling" (making harmonious, making congruous). Between us, we experienced a softening, a willingness to venture towards each other again. This plot of land remains erected as we toss out different scenarios to each other, toss out different words and recognitions of the roads we traveled to get there. While I look forward to what will be built on the plot, desire a name to be there, I fear a name, fear the power of the word - what the possible words will require of me, what power a possible word will have in my world. No doubt, however our new house appears, it will require logos, my love of logos and logos' love.

Milestones

The day after my sister's wedding, Harper hit two milestones. She decided walking was indeed for her, and she stopped nursing. Watching a baby learn to walk is a reminder of what a difficult task this is, and we soon learn not only how to do it without thinking but how to do it backwards, sideways, on hills, over rocky ground, in the dark. Harper is small for her age (just above knee high to me) and resembles a walking doll. She is so pleased with her accomplishment and quite self entertained trying out this new trick around the house, end to end, holding a variety of toys and attempting drinking while standing. My arms are getting some relief as she would rather walk than be held. Asher enjoys the new sport of ten-ways-to-knock-down-Harper-(aka "Not My Sister" and "Can She Leave the Family?")-without-looking-like-I-knocked-her-down. An addict of movement since I was born, I am so proud of Harper and so pleased that she is walking, able to join us for our outside play, hunt for us around the house and even participate in our walks.

Asher weaned himself quite easily. He gave up feedings progressively without complaint and even a what's-the-big-deal-here-anyway? attitude. Harper was another story. The poor girl had to decrease her feedings down to three times a day quite suddenly in January when I went back to work. When she was down to two feedings, as I thought about dropping her after nap feeding, she would see our couch, the usual location of nursing, and go ballistic (screaming, back arching, head thrown back) until I sat down with her. Somehow, down to one feeding, everything worked out as she was distracted by the activity and family in town for my sister's wedding and, loving milk, took a full cup of milk over nursing. Hallelujah! As much as I love nursing - the sweet time with my baby, the attachment we form to each other, the personality revealed, the soothing that helps us survive starting daycare, traveling and plane rides, the amazing capacity of the female body to solely nourish a baby for six months - I have reached a major milestone I want to celebrate. After 3 1/2 years - 42 months and 11 days - of being pregnant or nursing without pause, I am now neither. My body is mine. I can spend the night away from the house and eat or drink whatever I want.

Quite nicely, as I was coming out of this haze and just realizing my freedom (you'd think it would be immediately evident, but being physically attached to a baby became normal), things conspired so that my friend, Amy, and I went for a hike in the Poudre Canyon. Sadly, having lived in Colorado almost three years and loving hiking, this was only my third hike since moving here. Arranging one was near impossible while pregnant and quite difficult with nursing. We drove up the canyon about 1 1/2 hours and hiked just over an hour along the Cache de Poudre River. The weather had been so wet that it almost felt like a hike in the northwest, damp ground, ferns, brilliant red mushrooms. It was beautiful and relaxing and a reminder of other things I can accomplish.

So many things to ponder from the hike - the joy of conversation with a close friend, the splendor of nature, the smell of dirt and decay and growth, a reminder of how people can do things right (not build, save beautiful land), realization again of how much God values beauty that He would even make mushrooms, in oft unseen places, beautiful.

On our way out of the Canyon, Amy said that she had seen people stop at a certain place near the outlet to swim in the river. She asked if I wanted to go. Absolutely. We found the place, pulled over and walked carefully down the small hill. The river was about the width of the road and varying in depths from toe deep to shoulder deep. The water - good, snow water - was quite cold. A family was swimming up river from us, and we could see a short distance down the river. I took off my shirt and waded in in my sports bra and shorts. So cold at first, my feet, then legs, got used to the cold. Amy waded in up to her neck and swam towards where the water went over a foot high waterfall. I plunged under, hyperventilating, and then faced downstream, submerged up to my neck. The river water flowed strong around me, and I felt like part of the river, my cold body numb, my mind relaxed from the hike. I wanted to stay in that spot, relaxing on a deep couch in the earth, part of of something hugely bigger than me that soothed and cooled, lifted me and whispered water secrets.

Other Waters Are Ever Flowing

Last April, unexpectedly, the Presbytery decided to close our home church, a church my family had moved to Colorado to work with. The news was heartbreaking. I remember watching Michael serve communion at one of the last services and starting to weep because he would soon no longer stand before the church in that capacity. In the last service, our pastor cried during one of the hymns and, chin trembling, voice louder than usual with no amplification, he pronounced the benediction. I huddled with the other women after the service, shared hugs, and cried in grief for the loss and in fear of what Michael would do for work. Outside, the mountains were clearly visible through the floor to ceiling windows.

Within about a month, through a long process and many meetings, the Presbytery changed its decision, and the church was to reopen. I was confused by how to feel and act. I did not know how to turn around in the path I was in and enter that door again. How does one relate to something resurrected after one has grieved its death?

I tend to take my time in making decisions, often quietly weighing the possible paths, then making a decision and standing by it, living it. Staunchly. I have difficulty turning around after a decision. I am not one to pine. After Clare left for Iraq and Jaden had settled into a rhythm in our house, Michael questioned whether we adults had made a wise decision. I was furious that he had not brought up his concerns the the decision making and was unable to entertain the questions. It was made. It was done. We had struggled with it, cried, been exhausted, explained to friends and families, and I was moving into living the decision.

At the end of July, Michael withdrew his petition for divorce. I am wondering how to handle this change. For nine months, I struggled to salvage a relationship with Michael with emotional outpourings, admittance of wrongdoing, frightening confrontations, cries for help from friends to no avail. After a final discussion about a divorce and Michael's filing, I stepped onto a path that I knew would bring healing. And it didn't include a spousal relationship with Michael.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is when Christ brings Lazarus back to life. Christ performs a divine miracle after having wept over Lazarus' death. The Bible says so simply, "Jesus wept." I wondered as I read this passage recently, if I was supposed to perform some sort of divine miracle on my and Michael's relationship. And wondered how in the hell I was going to do that. Dead is dead. I've grieved. I was done. I was way down the path from the pile of divorce dung, the scent barely carried on the wind.

In the last month or so, I have reconnected with some college friends. I talked to one of them, Gillian, this last Tuesday, her in her university office in Melbourne and me feeding Harper dinner in Colorado. I told Gillian that I didn't know how I was going to bring back a relationship with Michael from the dead. She replied that maybe the relationship had to be something new, not a bringing back.

A sigh of relief. A FedEx from God. I am thinking now not about attempting resurrection but about spring, a time of resurrection. As the snow melts, the perennials burst forth through thawing dirt, new growth sprouting from something left over from the last season, through the winter, some root similarity. Bright new leaves appear on the same tree branches over our house. I have been thinking tonight about Prometheus and Heraclitus. Poor Prometheus punished by Zeus to be chained in the Caucasus forever, his liver eaten by an eagle, only to be regrown and the liver torn out endlessly each day until Heracles rescued him. Life is not the same endless pain, a resurrection of what was torn out, killed and digested. For, as Heraclitus wrote, "You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you."

(Footnote: Interestingly, the liver is the only human organ that can regenerate itself to a significant extent, and the Talmud refers to the liver as the seat of anger. How anger likes to regenerate itself. How we might have to tear out our liver repeatedly until Heracles - great strength - rescues us.)

A Lion and a Lamb

This evening, after a full weekend attending and celebrating my sister Clare's wedding, my mom and step dad left our house with my nephew and son to spend the night in Fort Collins and take a trip up the Poudre Canyon to look for some of the 650 moose living there. My mother loves mooses (meese). Tomorrow this foursome will hop on a plane and fly to California for the week. Asher has been away from home and away from each of his parents but never both of us at the same time. My dear boy heard he was going with his Nanna, Poppa and "my cousin" (as he calls his cousin Jaden) tonight, hugged his Nanna, said goodbye to me, "Bye, Mom" and walked happily to the front door. No fear!

My mom often reminds me that when I was three, I told her that I wanted to go on a plane by myself and talk to people. I would love to meet that little girl that I was, to know her confidence and her extroverted personality. Now I see it in my son, tromping out the door with his dear cousin and grandparents.

I have been amazed recently by my son. I remember remarking when Asher was less than a year what a sweet boy he was, and, more recently, what a tough, strong boy he his. Several times a day he pulls out a sword and asks me to sword fight. "Ving!" he says as he swings at me. Several times since Harper was born, Asher will approach her while she is crying and hug her, tell her everything is okay, and try to soothe his baby sister. Several times a day he asks me to play Army men, lining up the little green figures and shooting at each other, at cars, at a rhinoceros, lion, monkey and tank. Several times a week, Asher will turn to me and give me a hug, say, "I wuv you, Mom," or grab my hand as we are walking together. A couple times he said, "I wuv holding your hand." Several times a day he asks to play bad men, fighting and wrestling with each other. Every nap and bed time, Asher asks me to, "say pays" and sing "his song and Gesus love me" surrounded by all thirty of his Cars movie car toys and a fresh sippy cup of water. Several times a week, he asks to go on walks, to go exploring, to climb random stairs and steep driveways. Several times a week, Asher pulls out a set of small stuffed bears and their beds and tucks them under a blanket to go night night. Every morning, Harper and Asher wake up with the sun and, when I go in to get them, I find them playing peek-a-boo with the curtains. I am amazed by the fierceness and tenderness in my son, by his natural desire to be a warrior and explorer and by his natural desire to be a lover, nurturer and protector.

I grew up with two sisters, my mother and an often mentally absent alcoholic father. I had boys, young men and men who were friends and family. I had close boyfriends. I lived for seven years on the campus of an all boys Catholic school. But I rarely had the opportunity to see a boy or man who I knew well in all his facets, day in and day out. Even in my thirteen year relationship with my husband, I never clearly saw the dueling or twin natures of a man. Watching my son, I am just starting to feel these two natures and to appreciate them. I wonder at how a boy and young man learns to be both of these parts, what a young or grown man does when he feels fierce or feels tender, feels the pressure to be fierce when he wants to be tender or to be tender when he wants to be fierce, how parents can best help a boy sword fight and wrestle, play a fierce tiger and also feel deep, tender emotion.

I desire for my children the opportunity to be and be comfortable in being fully themselves. I desire for Asher that he understand how and when to be fierce, how and when to be tender and how to be himself in those situations where he feels both at the same time. May he be a lion and a lamb and may he learn how to lie down with both.