Finding the Right Words

By the way, I wrote this while sitting in
an enchanted garden.

There is a very particular frustration in trying to find the right words in a language that is not your native tongue.  The feeling is so specific and unlike any frustration I've ever experienced before that I think it merits it's own descriptive word.  I can't help but think that some language, somewhere, must have such a word!

The only analogy I can draw, is to the feeling I have had many times during a recurring dream (I'm sure someone reading this will find some hidden interpretation here) where I am using all my force, exerting every ounce of power I can draw out of my muscles, yet only moving in slow motion, as if running through a pool of water.  Because when I'm searching for words, sometimes it feel like I might stop breathing or my heart might stop beating because every last neuron is firing trying to connect whatever abstract idea is in my mind to some particular word.  And a lot of times, not matter how hard I try, I feel like I can't find the right word, either because I have never learned it, or else I once learned it and have since forgotten it, or else it doesn't even exist.  The biggest problem is that I don't even know which of the three problems I'm up against at any given moment.  It's like putting together a puzzle that is missing some of the essential pieces but at the same time, has all these extra pieces that don't actually fit, without any sort of guide to tell you which is which.

At times, experiences and explanations and opinions and understandings exist in your mind in such a specific way, that it's hard to frame them with a language that you are still learning to own.  Or maybe you've never practiced putting that particular body of thought into words outside of your own language, or maybe it's hard to express a certain level of complexity, even in your native tongue.  But when you're trying to communicate, you can't always pause to have these philosophical discussions with yourself--you have to find a way to get your point across, even if your words feel inadequate.  Sometimes this is as simple as choosing a different word, but sometimes it's as complex as turning your thoughts upside-down, moving to the other side of the room, turning your head and squinting a little bit, to frame everything from a new perspective.  And that's just one sentence.

In some ways, speaking a new language requires you to do the same thing that an artist does, or an innovative businessman or a diplomat negotiating a treaty.  That is, to make one thing out of something else while working in the confines of your own knowledge and understanding, looking from a different perspective and balancing the relative importance of each word.  It's truly a creative process.

In some ways, learning Italian has taught me not just how to speak better, but how to live better.  I've learned diligence, patience with myself and my own abilities, fearlessness and the ability to stand exposed, weaknesses and imperfections laid bare, as that is the only way to learn.  I've learned that I can't always grow as much as I'd like to grow in a single day, but that over the course of a year, those incremental, barely-noticeable changes tend to multiply and even grow exponentially.

And I realize, even when I am leaving a trail of discord everywhere I go, even when I'm faced with a mound of accumulated, unnecessary and abandoned prepositions, even when my nouns are absolutely confused about their true gender and even when my subjects and verbs are left arguing so much because they just don't agree, that tomorrow is a new day to make fresh mistakes and (hopefully!) leave behind some of the old ones.

And I salute Dante and Manzoni and all the others, for the work that they've done to build up and solidify this beautiful language, even as I am doing everything in my power to rip it down, tear it up and try to re-build some semblance of something that is somewhat understandable as a human language.  Because I realize that a language is not like a picture hanging in a museum, something meant to be left, lonely and pristine, for centuries without any real human contact, but rather a piece of clay that is at it's very best when it is being changed, molded, rolled around and constantly reshaped.

And on the bad days, when I feel tongue-tied and confused, I remind myself that the most beautiful things in life, after all, are those that can't quite be captured in words.

I love these statues from the Bardini Gardens because I feel like they're having a conversation.
Or maybe he was like "Hey, girl, hey." and she was like "Nope, not gonna happen."