When Words Escape

on dandelions, sand and rivers

Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

Words are like tufts of dandelion fur bobbing on a wayward breeze. They bounce and weave and slip through outstretched fingers, tumbling upward, onward, awayward. I reach out, extend my arm just as far as it will go, but those slippery words squeeze through clenched fists and vanish.

Words escape me.

Words are like grains of sand swept up on the seashore, prodded and poked into elaborate formations by soggy surf. A castle? Sure—those tiny grains can conjure such a thing, summon it forth from mischievous friends: waves and sand and shovels and sun. But hold that castle too tightly—touch it at all—and those sand specks spill out and over, escaping back among their own.

Words vanish from my mind.

I panic, it’s true. Mid-conversation, fumbling for that precise key to meaning, that elegant insight on the tip of the tongue. I pause, bite my lip, blink once, twice and realize I’ve swallowed whatever it was. That perfect word is now being digested.

But I’m a writer, I say, brushing aside that panic, a mosquito in need of a hearty swat. I know words. I swim in words. Words are my thing.

But they slip away all the same—sand in my grasping hand.

They bounce away all the time—dandelion fluff in a storm.

And they take something with them, some piece of my identity, of myself, who I think I am. Or, that’s what I let happen. Words carry me away while leaving me behind.

And I panic.

And I wonder: What if words are like a river? They wash over you, whip around you, speed past you, countless words, so many wonders and delights and fragments of meaning and efforts to grapple with that which can’t be touched. They are all perfect, elegant. And they can’t always be controlled. They can’t always be conjured on demand.

Words are magic of a different sort.

And so, step into that river. Let the current carry you. Bask in its gentle caress, in its sudden turns, its tumultuous rapids.

The words come to you like a lazy river, like rushing white water, like a lagoon of infinite depths. Maybe we just need to float and be patient.

Meaning takes time. And perfect meaning is an illusion.

All we can do is assemble the pieces of words we’re given, the ones we stumble upon, that reach out to us, and let the others wash by, float away, slip past.

And we wait.

And another thing:

• What do you do when your mind wanders in prayer? Do you beat yourself up, or do you turn in wonder, curious as to where the Spirit might be leading you? I write about “wandering prayers” over at IgnatianSpirituality.com. Check it out.