Language, Ltd.

“Words reduce reality to the grasp of the human mind…which isn’t much. Language consists of only five sounds, the vowels, which are produced by the vocal chords, a, e, i, o and u. The only other sounds, the consonants, are made by air pressure.”
- Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth

I.

There are about one million words in English, 170,000 in common usage, and only 30,000 used by one individual.

How can we possibly reduce the magnitude of the Universe, of God, the Soul, or even me or you, or an orange blossom, to these finite, crude tools?

This is why so much is beyond us. Our thoughts are based in this same limitation of language.

I say “bluebird” and you know exactly what I mean.

There is a rickety, gray file drawer in the brain marked “Birds,” and in a neural manila folder with a peeling label there’s the word “bluebird” and inside the file is a mimeographed fact sheet with a stock photograph of a bluebird paper-clipped to it.

Yet we really don’t know what a bluebird is beyond that compound word consisting of three vowels and five consonants.

We think we know, but we don’t really.

We have no idea.

We know a bluebird is not our predator and is not a threat. There’s one on the eaves right now, scouting the back lawn for worms.

But that is not knowledge of bluebird.

II.

I’m a poet.

I traffic in words. I speak of bluebirds, and their ilk.

I wax elegantly about cardinals, the state Bird of North Carolina.

I wax elegantly about cedar waxwings (not really).

I laud the almost extinct California condors, that glide 150 miles a day on thermals.

I cleverly weave tapestries of words, using rhyme, rhythm, imagery, alliteration and cute little tricks like simile, meta-a-phor and onomatopoeia.

I sometimes publish these poems in obscure literary journals. I occasionally win prizes for these poems, but I keep my day job.

I have nine volumes of poetry published, but I know nothing of this world.

I’m limited by those same five sounds that you have at your disposal.

III.

The bluebird is back. Watching the bluebird in the grass or on wing, starts to get at something different, but is only a speck (like Earth) in outer space. The bluebird is me, and I am the bluebird in this morning moment.

On one level, it’s a marvel that we even understand each other. “Hello” and “How Have You Been?” should be considered miracles on the level of raising Lazarus from the dead. But instead, we call it conversation, small talk or chit-chat.

Only in the full-stoppage of time, the eternity of the moment, in a deep breath in, holding it and releasing it, do I know anything.