Word-stalker & Words Talker

A new word is like a fresh seed sewn on the ground of the discussion.

~Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889-1951) Austrian-British philosopher

In the Kingdom of Ice, by Hampton Sides, is my most recently read book. In reading this book, I discovered seven words I'd never heard of before (most having to do with the Arctic tundra). 

Every book I've ever read has offered at least one new-to-me word. The magic of a Kindle (and maybe all electronic books) is the ability to find the definition by accessing the embedded dictionary. Even so, if the word is fascinating enough, I write it down, along with its definition. As soon as I get to my computer, I add it to my now-40 pages of words.

I most likely will never use the majority of these words. Yet, because they intrigued and fascinated me, I needed to become "friends" with them, to acquaint myself with them, to welcome them into that small part of my brain that finds joy in discovering something I had not previously known.

I like Wittgenstein's comment about using a new word in a discussion. Of course, it must be a well-chosen word because, as Andre Maurois states in An Art of Living, "To reason with poorly chosen words is like using a pair of scales with inaccurate weights." 

Julius Charles Hare, in Guesses at Truth: by Two Brothers wrote, "When you doubt between two words, choose the plainest, the commonest, the most idiomatic ... ." I haven't read this tome but know it was written in the mid-1800s, a time when even "the plainest, the commonest, the most idiomatic" words and phrases could be picturesque, flowing and full of zest. Much of the modern-day plain and common language is drab, coarse and sloppy.  

Obviously I could go on and on about words and how they fascinate me. However, to paraphrase Sophocles, the fewest words often have the ability to show much wisdom.  

   









   

Mistress of the House of Books

Seshat, ancient Egyptian Goddess of Writing and Wisdom, 

aka Mistress of the House of Books.

My "house of books" has shrunk over the years. It is now down to four six-foot long shelves, but those shelves are stuffed full of books of all sizes, colors, shapes and subject matter. I've had at least three-quarters of this collection of books for many years. They are "old friends" I turn to when there's nothing else drawing my reading attention. 

Of course, as much as I love these books--my hard copy books--I also have a Kindle and I admit that has taken my attention away from paper books. 

There is one type of reading, however, which will never be just right unless I'm holding the actual book in my hand. Poetry. Poems "speak" best when read from an actual book. 

When the book is open in my lap, I can read the poet's words, glance away from the page, contemplate, and then return my gaze to those lovely pairings. I can't imagine reading Stanley Kunitz' Next-to-Last Things, Intellectual Things or Passport to the War: A Selection of Poems on a Kindle. Nor would Mary Oliver's deep, natural-world, sensual poems "feel" just right if read on a digital device. 

One of my favorite books of poetry is dated 1939. My father brought the book into our home about 1950. The cover is faded blue and tattered, the poems inside are quaint and simple. It was discovered in a trash bin on one of Dad's forays into an old and dusty, fusty building. It's not the poetry that appeals to me as much as the memory of Dad rescuing it from the trash. 

Dad was an elevator repairman and the only one in the company who had the knowledge to work on the ancient elevators still chugging away in some of Portland's oldest office and apartment buildings. He often found some "treasure" to haul home. 

There were a few items he chose to drag home which Mom never allowed into the house (such as old chairs and dressers). "Found" books, maps and old magazines, however, would always find their way into the house and my brother and I devoured them. National Geographic, Popular Mechanics, Life and Collier's all came in at some time or other.

I wonder why it is that I enjoy looking at my shelves of books? Maybe because they truly are "old friends," as so perfectly said by Kevin DeYoung in his post about why he hopes real books never die: 

"Old books are like old friends. They love to be revisited. They stick around to give advice. They remind you of days gone by. Books, like friends, hang around. And they prefer not to be invisible."

  

Surviving Stupidity - Part 1

Wisdom is the reward for surviving our own stupidity

~Brian Rathbone, Regent

Certainly there have been times when my own stupidity, simple lack of awareness or disregard for propriety have put me in, if not dire, definitely uncomfortable, situations. I like to think I've learned from those missteps. Whether they allowed me to gain "wisdom" is debatable. 

What I have attained over these many, many decades of living is peacefulness and mindfulness; an ability to empathize; a need to understand others and their points of view. Maybe this is wisdom.

 

Adverse Conversing?

The fundamental cause of trouble in the world today is that 

the stupid are cocksure while the intelligent are full of doubt. 

        ~Bertrand Russell*, Unpopular Essays 

I'm certainly not stupid and don't want to appear cocksure, but I do not want to be seen as intelligent yet cocksure, either. What do I want? Insightful, informed and convivial conversation. I implore you, go right ahead, talk to me. 

After reading the above Bertrand Russell quote I couldn't help but remember all the times friends have said when I opine about something (and I opine a lot!) they automatically believe me because I sound so sure of myself. I'm trying to figure out how to change that perception because often I'm not "so sure of myself." I'm thinking out loud. I want feedback and the opinions of others. I don't simply "want" that, I hunger for it. 

It's easy to forget that the type of conversational interaction I learned "at my father's knee" may not be conducive to easy, back and forth communication.  

Substance of Memories

A recent "Ask Marilyn" column featured a question about whether or not a person who had traumatic or painful memories could be hypnotized to forget those memories. vos Savant (nee Mach) wrote that this would not be possible because "memories are chemical, meaning they have substance." 

She said a person who was susceptible to hypnotism could "... respond to the suggestion to 'forget' certain events... but this action simply prevents them from being able to recall all the episodes. The memory itself still exists in their brains, and so does the aftermath and the many relevant associations... The result is that the people still feel bad but cannot recall why."

Call of the Wild ... Words

Life has a way of sneaking up on us, sneaking past us, snaking its way through the years in ways both familiar and alien. Familiar because we can look back and pinpoint times when the longings felt the same and yet time reformed their meaning and circumstances rerouted the hoped-for conclusions. Alien because the decades spent putting dreams aside almost obliterated and made foreign the unrivaled joy to be found in doing that one thing one was born to do.

I have been fascinated by words since the age of three and, from the moment I learned to read, have been delighted by the written word. However, no halls of higher learning beckoned me to explore possibilities or hone skills in the writing or journalism arena. Once in a while over the years a submitted essay, article or poem of mine would be accepted for publication in the local paper or a quarterly literary magazine. Writing courses fulfilled a need to practice my often solitary craft with like-minded people.

Two years ago an acquaintance hired me to format and edit her book of prose. In vastly different ways, that endeavor was a delightful learning experience for both of us. During that time I also edited and assisted in research for a

Post: Compost

               

            I'm queen of my own compost heap & 

          I'm getting used to the smell.

         Ani DeFranco

One amazingly bright and sunny Saturday afternoon in mid-October, my son, his family and I attended Portland Nursery’s annual Apple Tasting Festival. Hundreds of folks were milling about; some biting into caramel apples, some dipping into dishes of apple pie and ice cream, and what seemed like hundreds standing in four long lines waiting to taste the 60 different types of apples being diced and put out for sampling.

Lively country music wafted across hay bales and over the several acres of nursery grounds, spurring some to sway and dance to the tunes. After tasting every one of the apple samples, we drifted over to the area where the cider press was pumping out free samples of delicious, fresh apple cider.The fellow manning the press raised his voice over the chattering crowd to announce, “Free bags of apple pulp for anyone who wants it. Makes a great addition to your compost pile,” as he motioned to the stack of five-gallon bags of pulp. Did my son want any? No. Did I? Yes! Why? Well… I have big ideas for a new vegetable garden and probably unattainable plans for extensive flower beds around the home I moved into about a year ago. I’ll take all the free cuttings and plant starts I’m offered and … I’ll take anything at all that I think will beneficially amend the heavy, clay soil on the property.

That’s the reason 10 gallons of apple pulp were graciously toted (by my son and his 11-year old son) from the nursery, to the car, to two beds in back of my house.I didn’t intend that the pulp would sit out there for two weeks, attracting 10-million fruit flies and who knows how many raccoons and possums!? But, it did. It sat there. It rotted and molded and … sat. 

Last Saturday, another blue-sky day, my son and his oldest son, 16, spread a yard of hemlock bark on the side yard (stepping stones to be added). Feeling a bit sheepish at all the work they were doing for me, I decided to do a bit of dead-heading of faded flowers.Clippers in hand, I made my merry way around the back yard. 

Looking deep into a large flower bed, I noticed a perennial plant that desperately needed some tending. I stepped off the grass and into the bed. Oopsie! I slipped and fell with a hard bump on my butt! What did I slip on?