Language: bewitchment or ablaze?

Words… the bend.. the curve.. the syntax, they are beauty.


English is without the romance of Spanish and without the fêted angry tones of our German brethren. English you are in your purest form, far from my vernacular. I am not sure we have ever met.

You have been bended and blended though the long draw of the Appalachian hills and the draw of the Savannah heat. Your verbs have been made into nouns, your conjunctions without punctuation. You are often a wandering gypsy of signs and symbols up to the interpretation of the reader. Sound familiar?

The ancient curves and sacred vows of the Hebrew, the ground shaking glorious often frightful idolatry spewed of the Greek. The alive never dead Latin. We are allowed, by the grace of God and brilliant minds, to communicate with the outside world. The thoughts in your head, in my head, come out in curves and lines that someone gloriously categorized.

I am listening to Gillian Welch this moment, her twain will make your heart cry. You can almost hear the pain and grief she spills through her vocals. Why do we need to read minds, we need only listen.

The heart spills, its can’t be contained, it spills words and then emotions come. Sure, emotions may precede the words but that’s a different argument.

The larger my vocabulary grows the less I feel able to articulate, God’s humor I suppose. We are both blessed and cursed with word after word after word to describe. We have endless options to describe what sometimes sounds, looks, tastes, feels like….. we have no small lexicon to choose from.

Is language the bewitchment of our intelligence…. or is it what sets it ablaze?


Why is it that in moments of awe, when we are struck with majesty of a sunset– the dawn of spring- the first snowfall- a baby’s birth….. that we have no words. We are stone- frozen and without any means of explaining.


Oh words, Oh English, Oh language you are a winding river of rushing whitewater and desert places. You are full and fertile, sterile and dry. You are the epitome  of the human spirit. You are molded, made, bended – never broken- just adapted. You at times are too much and others properly quiet. You are a gift of the creator. You are a gift……


About RootsSinkDeep

Words to keyboard, not quite the same as pen to paper, but for now in a season of flurry and tiny chaos, this will do. Though I long for the feel of graphite under hand I am grateful for fingers that work the same. May you join me as I seek to find joy in the ordinary?
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