The Catbird Seat

I love words. Ask anyone who knows me at all and you’ll find out quickly the truth of that statement. I really do love them. Consequently, I use a lot of them. Frequently. Ad nauseum, sometimes. Maybe that’s why I link to Merriam-Webster online.
I especially have a love for the right words. By “right” I mean, appropriate. Fitting. I love 25-cent words, like “enigmatic” (okay, so maybe that one’s more like 10-cents), but I also have a soft spot for a well-chosen monosyllabic word like “terse.” It’s not the length or reading-level rank of a word that makes it interesting or valuable to me. It’s the connotation of the word and how it’s used that piques my interest. For example, our pastor, Mark Bates, recently used the word “pariah” in his sermon. I was delighted. I’m also convinced that over half the people in the congregation had no idea what it meant. Nonetheless, it was the precise word that was required for the point he was making. Mark later defined it as “an outcast” to a few church staff members (of whom my husband was one) that good-naturedly teased him about using such high-level language from the pulpit. And while “outcast” is indeed a synonym, it just doesn’t capture the full meaning implied in the word “pariah.” The subtle connotative difference is somehow lost when you use a different word. I love that about words. There is almost always one specific word that fits the bill; any other word feels just not quite right. So what happens when you can’t seem to find that perfect word…

I hate words. Or maybe I hate that I don’t know more words. Surely that’s not it. (grin)
Paul (my husband, the one with the Master’s in Music) would say that the difficulty with words, or language in general, is that it is discursive in nature. Rational. Linear. Limited.
Music, art, dance…these all make use of non-discursive language. No words. Only images, sounds and movements. And, as you might expect, they convey a depth of emotion that no words can describe. Listen to a symphony by Beethoven or Brahms, one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, or “Claire de Lune” by Debussy. You might not like it, you may not even be able to describe what you get out of it, but, unless you’re deaf, you will attach meaning to it. I promise. You won’t be able to help yourself. It’s like the part in Shawshank Redemption where Andy plays an aria from a Mozart opera over the prison loudspeaker. Even though it’s in Italian, it stops the prisoners dead in their tracks. Sometimes words just aren’t necessary. And sometimes they’re necessary, but they just don’t do the trick.
Case in point: Paul and I have been having discussions lately about how maybe church work shouldn’t be about “outcomes.” The “process” may be of far greater importance both in this world and eternally. The problem with these discussions is that I hate the word “process.” Well, I don’t hate it, but it is so loaded for me, that I can’t get past my biases to attach a new connotative meaning to it. Paul has suggested that I come up with a better descriptor. So far I’ve been hard-pressed to meet the challenge! I just sit there, trying to be engaged in the conversation, thinking to myself, “There’s GOT to be a better word for this!”

What do you do with a love-hate relationship? Well, in my case, I made a lifelong committment to it. You know the phrase: for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, til death do us part. Words and me. We’re struggling right now, and considering counseling to work out our differences. We’re probably just not spending enough quality time together.
Nah, that can’t be it.

Filed under: General, Catbird, Like a fire on January 26th, 2006