Pleasant words are like a honeycomb,
Sweetness to the soul and health to the bones. ~ Proverbs 16:24
Sweetness to the soul and health to the bones. ~ Proverbs 16:24
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| Magnified scale from a butterfly wing |
I step outside into the sting of wet wind - to collect a crateful of wood for the hissing fire. Two crows cross the weeping skies, etched briefly for me to watch their melancholy flight. Towards the forest, our "wolf" stretches his neck, and a howl, purer than silver light, flows over the veiled landscape. The lonely beauty of birches, bent wetly towards the earth, the stillness under fallen leaves and stones. Air crisp and sharp into the mulled corners of my mind. It is all strangely inviting. But the pull towards my children's voices, this warm contented chaos of home and belonging, is always stronger. Board and hearth. A lusty life of foraging and feeding, scolding and warning one second, helpless with laughter the next.
Just recently, a small child, unwittingly cruel in his observations, declared us to be "poor". Our youngest son came to me with this word, not sure how to weigh it in his small hand. He knew that from his friend's mouth, it did not sound like a good thing to be. But he knows enough to declare in his own words, that to him, we have everything he could wish for. "We all use different ways of measuring", I told him. When we place what we have on the scale, it sighs heavily. There are riches that can and will not be displayed or compared. But it is our words that we need to weigh with care.
No word in itself can be wicked. It is the way words are intended or perceived that turn them into an acid that collects in the ears, or a sweet libation - both seeping downward, irretrievable. The "weight" of our words may be a blessing for some, a burden to others. Their value may be used for an unintended gain, their meaning for an unintended purpose.
Luke, (the physician from the Bible, not our son...) wrote that out of the overflow of a man's heart his mouth speaks. We tend to perceive the heart as the seat of emotions and feelings. But the Biblical word “heart”, denotes the inner aspect of a person, consisting of three inseparable parts:
1) The primary part, the mental process, which is where action and reaction take place, and which is to lead a person in life.
2) Emotions, which process reaction, like the frosting which enriches our lives.
3) Will, the seat of the will (discretionary, volitional, decision-making) where decisions are made between the rational and the emotive.
2) Emotions, which process reaction, like the frosting which enriches our lives.
3) Will, the seat of the will (discretionary, volitional, decision-making) where decisions are made between the rational and the emotive.
That is why it is not so easy to divide humans into the physical and metaphysical. For me, speaking "from the heart" can not only be emotive. (For this we could use those cute emoticons on social media). Speaking pure words from the heart has to be a mental, emotional and rational process. Brought together in harmony by the Spirit of Christ, sealed into my heart and guiding me in all things.
For someone who has had a love affair with words for as long as I can remember - words have the ability to defy gravity and give flight. They pirouette and strut through my mind, almost never letting up. As they align for a synchronised dance, I am all too easily swept away. Surrounding noises blur and blend, like the hum of our fridge on wooden floorboards. I can taste them, smell their sharp or subtle perfumes, see their colour, shape and texture so tantalisingly near. They are the food and spice of day-dreams, the distraction from duties, the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down.
But there have been other words, which have long been forgiven, even forgotten perhaps. But at an unguarded moment - a conversation, phrase or word washes up. It lies there, staring accusingly with milky, dead fish eyes. I stare - knowing that I shouldn't. But it is too late. The rotting smell of an ancient hurt is suddenly as vivid as the sun.
The human tongue is a beast, which few can master. I am learning that it is always safer guarded, than given reign. Exactly when I have felt most confident about voicing my own opinions or (perceived) clever arguments, have I ended up with a hefty slice of humble pie on my plate and an apology for desert.
On a merry tour of the Western Cape's finest wine farms, I once stepped into a cellar, lined with rows of softly glowing vats. The winemaker was moving unhurriedly through his underground domain. Dwarfed by barrels, stacked in grandiose symmetry. A velvety mole content in his dusky tunnel. When he finally noticed my presence, he became animated and agile, ready to verse and immerse the stranger into his world. I have forgotten much of the knowledge he shared that day. But when I thought about the flavour and quality of our words - the analogy of good wine from prime oak barrels came to mind. Oak is used in viticulture (the clever word for producing wine) to vary the colour, flavor, tannin profile and texture of wine. Back in the glare of day-light, piled high as a barren mountain, were the discarded vats. Dried out by the elements - no longer of use, except to pose as tavern tables or vain decorations. (Like most analogies or theories - this one is by no means water- /wine-proof... but it hopefully serves to get at least a part of the message across.)
Having said all that - words that have flown off an unchecked tongue, or have been written from an unguarded and -guided "heart", still only have the power to wound when or if I take them in. The same heart, the seat of the will, gives me the choice and discernment to discard these words, should they be false. Or to try and see the wounded place that they came from with compassion. I could have saved myself a lot of anguish and even bitterness, had I learnt this lesson earlier in life...
My two boys are masters at turning my angry retorts into a meltdown of affection. This day began as one of those typical shivery Autumn mornings in the mountains. Calling for fire and caffeine to get the bones going. Being a woman, I am supposed to be able to multitask quite efficiently. But I think I push this a bit at times. With the milk heating on the gas for a batch of yogurt, I packed the fire, checked my Whatsapp messages, tried to end the quarrel behind my back, while sipping from a steaming cuppa by my side. Halfway through the kindling, there was a request for a soap bubble mix. So I blew on the fire - which sent ash flying all over the rug - and got up with a groan and a grunt. I hunted the cupboard for an empty spice-bottle in which to pour the "bubble mix". Half-way through this distraction, the milk, which is supposed to be brought gently to the point just prior to boiling, bubbled over with hissing abandon. Deep breath. (The guard was still at his post at this point). I handed over the bubble mix and pointed mutely towards the door. Halfway through the mopping up process I heard a crash. I tripped over a discarded gumboot on the doorstep, skidded on the spilled bubble-mix and let rip. (The guard fled in terror...) Stupefied stares. At this point, the "let's woo this ogre back to the woman who is our mother" look passed between them. With pouting lips and tear-bright eyes the words tumbled out like a jet of foam on the wicked witch's fire: "I am the baddest boy in the whole, whole world! Just send me away (sniff). You do so much for us and I can't do anything right..." If you have ever seen what happens to a snail when you pour salt on it - this is what followed. The fury simply dissolved, just leaving a guilt stain and a harmless shell.
So - we are born with it, this ability to placate or manipulate. Words being only one of the tools in the armoury. And as the vocabulary grows, so does the skill. We refer to smooth talkers as having "the gift of the gab". A talent for verbal fluency, especially the ability to talk persuasively. This aptitude can be used in speech or writing, and we are often won over by (or tempted to use) both. At times I have re-read some of what that I have written over the years and been horrified by the pompous tone or pretentiousness of my words. Or amazed at the grace that sparkles in them - hardly remembering them to be my own.
This morning while I was searching for something on "Google" - I found this honest little poem. In an instant - I could feel and remember the same choking feeling of sadness and the same relief from wordless gestures of surrender and love.
Some days
sad is a word
I can't swallow.
It swells inside my throat
until it's stuck.
I hurry home from school
and beat Mom there.
The second she arrives,
I crawl onto her lap
like when I was little.
She holds me, quiet,
and strokes my hair.
I stay there
til the sadness shrinks
and I can breathe again.
For someone who has had a love affair with words for as long as I can remember - words have the ability to defy gravity and give flight. They pirouette and strut through my mind, almost never letting up. As they align for a synchronised dance, I am all too easily swept away. Surrounding noises blur and blend, like the hum of our fridge on wooden floorboards. I can taste them, smell their sharp or subtle perfumes, see their colour, shape and texture so tantalisingly near. They are the food and spice of day-dreams, the distraction from duties, the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down.
But there have been other words, which have long been forgiven, even forgotten perhaps. But at an unguarded moment - a conversation, phrase or word washes up. It lies there, staring accusingly with milky, dead fish eyes. I stare - knowing that I shouldn't. But it is too late. The rotting smell of an ancient hurt is suddenly as vivid as the sun.
The human tongue is a beast, which few can master. I am learning that it is always safer guarded, than given reign. Exactly when I have felt most confident about voicing my own opinions or (perceived) clever arguments, have I ended up with a hefty slice of humble pie on my plate and an apology for desert.
On a merry tour of the Western Cape's finest wine farms, I once stepped into a cellar, lined with rows of softly glowing vats. The winemaker was moving unhurriedly through his underground domain. Dwarfed by barrels, stacked in grandiose symmetry. A velvety mole content in his dusky tunnel. When he finally noticed my presence, he became animated and agile, ready to verse and immerse the stranger into his world. I have forgotten much of the knowledge he shared that day. But when I thought about the flavour and quality of our words - the analogy of good wine from prime oak barrels came to mind. Oak is used in viticulture (the clever word for producing wine) to vary the colour, flavor, tannin profile and texture of wine. Back in the glare of day-light, piled high as a barren mountain, were the discarded vats. Dried out by the elements - no longer of use, except to pose as tavern tables or vain decorations. (Like most analogies or theories - this one is by no means water- /wine-proof... but it hopefully serves to get at least a part of the message across.)
Having said all that - words that have flown off an unchecked tongue, or have been written from an unguarded and -guided "heart", still only have the power to wound when or if I take them in. The same heart, the seat of the will, gives me the choice and discernment to discard these words, should they be false. Or to try and see the wounded place that they came from with compassion. I could have saved myself a lot of anguish and even bitterness, had I learnt this lesson earlier in life...
My two boys are masters at turning my angry retorts into a meltdown of affection. This day began as one of those typical shivery Autumn mornings in the mountains. Calling for fire and caffeine to get the bones going. Being a woman, I am supposed to be able to multitask quite efficiently. But I think I push this a bit at times. With the milk heating on the gas for a batch of yogurt, I packed the fire, checked my Whatsapp messages, tried to end the quarrel behind my back, while sipping from a steaming cuppa by my side. Halfway through the kindling, there was a request for a soap bubble mix. So I blew on the fire - which sent ash flying all over the rug - and got up with a groan and a grunt. I hunted the cupboard for an empty spice-bottle in which to pour the "bubble mix". Half-way through this distraction, the milk, which is supposed to be brought gently to the point just prior to boiling, bubbled over with hissing abandon. Deep breath. (The guard was still at his post at this point). I handed over the bubble mix and pointed mutely towards the door. Halfway through the mopping up process I heard a crash. I tripped over a discarded gumboot on the doorstep, skidded on the spilled bubble-mix and let rip. (The guard fled in terror...) Stupefied stares. At this point, the "let's woo this ogre back to the woman who is our mother" look passed between them. With pouting lips and tear-bright eyes the words tumbled out like a jet of foam on the wicked witch's fire: "I am the baddest boy in the whole, whole world! Just send me away (sniff). You do so much for us and I can't do anything right..." If you have ever seen what happens to a snail when you pour salt on it - this is what followed. The fury simply dissolved, just leaving a guilt stain and a harmless shell.
So - we are born with it, this ability to placate or manipulate. Words being only one of the tools in the armoury. And as the vocabulary grows, so does the skill. We refer to smooth talkers as having "the gift of the gab". A talent for verbal fluency, especially the ability to talk persuasively. This aptitude can be used in speech or writing, and we are often won over by (or tempted to use) both. At times I have re-read some of what that I have written over the years and been horrified by the pompous tone or pretentiousness of my words. Or amazed at the grace that sparkles in them - hardly remembering them to be my own.
This morning while I was searching for something on "Google" - I found this honest little poem. In an instant - I could feel and remember the same choking feeling of sadness and the same relief from wordless gestures of surrender and love.
Missing my old life ~ Nikki Grimes
sad is a word
I can't swallow.
It swells inside my throat
until it's stuck.
I hurry home from school
and beat Mom there.
The second she arrives,
I crawl onto her lap
like when I was little.
She holds me, quiet,
and strokes my hair.
I stay there
til the sadness shrinks
and I can breathe again.
There is much which will always remain beyond words. There is a saying about being a witness for Christ: "Preach the Gospel at all times, and if necessary use words." But when words are called for, in any circumstance - I would want them to be words with wings. This includes my thoughts - for this can be the place were words are born or borne. Words given flight and life by the the Holy Spirit, who guards and guides the whole heart. Or words that, unweighed - tumble in ragged spirals toward an inevitable fall. Sometimes, when I am grappling for the right word or words - I try to compare the concept, with a substance or a melody, a colour, an emotion or scent. Or a place in time, when I remember feeling what I want to express. But the words which soar the highest and longest, come from a place far beyond substance or sense and sensibility. Received straight from the honeycomb, these can truly be sweetness to the soul, health to the bones. Life to a drowning man.
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