Words
01/06/19 04:32
The Miracle Worker is a play based upon Helen Keller’s autobiography, “The Story of My Life.” The cycle of scenes was produced by the drama department of our college. I wasn’t very involved with drama in college, but the performance was enhanced by an original score composed by one of the students in the college and the decision was made to record the score and play the recorded music at scene changes. I worked at the college library and had access to the audio visual equipment of the library, which included a good four-track reel-to-reel tape recorder. Somehow, I became the audio technician and ended up attending all of the performances to run the equipment and control the timing of the music.
The pivotal scene in the production is the famous moment when the teacher Annie Sullivan takes Helen to the pump house and places one of her hands in the running water while spelling out the letters W A T E R into her other hand over and over. Keller’s autobiography describes the moment:
“We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Someone was drawing water, and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over my hand, she spelled into the other, the word ‘water,’ first slowly, then, rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motion of her fingers. Suddenly, I felt a misty consciousness of something forgotten — a thrill of returning thought; and somehow, the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that W-A-T-E-R meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free.”
There is a great power to words. Language is one of the marks of humanity and the discovery of language can be liberating.
It is easy for most of us to take language for granted. We grow up surrounded by language. Our parents speak to us from the beginning of our lives. Of course, Helen Keller’s inability to hear isolated her from what most of us experience. The result was a dramatic moment, when she was seven years old, that is quite distinct from the slow emerging of language that is more common.
But there are times in life when language must be re-learned, or at least new language is required in order to process our experiences.
I sometimes help with facilitating a support group for survivors of suicide. The group has a structure with a set opening and closing, but most of the time is devoted to sharing stories and experiences. Participants tell me over and over again how important it has been for them to discover a place where they have permission to tell their stories and to talk about their loss. They feel pressured by family and friends to get on with their lives, to get over their loss, and to move beyond their grief. Getting over the loss of a loved one, however, is not what they want to do. They want to examine the tragedy of loss for meaning. They don’t want their loved one to be “over.”
In the support group, it is almost as if the participants are learning a new language - the language of loss and grief. Some days an individual will sit and listen for most of the session. That same person may speak tentatively at another time. Then a day will come when the same person has a lot to say. It reminds me of a child first learning to speak. When that child discovers a set of sounds that works - that gets attention, or yields desired results - the sounds are repeated over and over again in a burst of pure joy. Once a grieving person finds words for their story, they find joy in telling that story. The story may be painful, but there is genuine liberation in being able to speak the truth about their loved one.
I remember, especially at the time of the death of my mother, being at a loss for words. I had known grief before my mother died. It had been more than 30 years since my father died. I remember doing a lot of driving and not speaking after his death. My circumstances were different when my mother died. I was immersed in the complex dynamics of a busy family. I had responsibilities for her care. And then, suddenly, there was a radical change in how I spent my time. I didn’t have the words I wished I had to express what I was feeling. I was a bit guarded with my storytelling. Some of my friends thought that I got over the grief very quickly because I returned to work and got back into the mix of things quickly. It was at lest a year later when I began to understand the complexity of that time. I now tell the story quite freely. I understand what I was experiencing much better. I have a strong sense of needing to learn how to speak of my grief after the loss.
Gregory Orr quotes Wordsworth in has extended poem, “Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved.”
The pivotal scene in the production is the famous moment when the teacher Annie Sullivan takes Helen to the pump house and places one of her hands in the running water while spelling out the letters W A T E R into her other hand over and over. Keller’s autobiography describes the moment:
“We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Someone was drawing water, and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over my hand, she spelled into the other, the word ‘water,’ first slowly, then, rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motion of her fingers. Suddenly, I felt a misty consciousness of something forgotten — a thrill of returning thought; and somehow, the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that W-A-T-E-R meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free.”
There is a great power to words. Language is one of the marks of humanity and the discovery of language can be liberating.
It is easy for most of us to take language for granted. We grow up surrounded by language. Our parents speak to us from the beginning of our lives. Of course, Helen Keller’s inability to hear isolated her from what most of us experience. The result was a dramatic moment, when she was seven years old, that is quite distinct from the slow emerging of language that is more common.
But there are times in life when language must be re-learned, or at least new language is required in order to process our experiences.
I sometimes help with facilitating a support group for survivors of suicide. The group has a structure with a set opening and closing, but most of the time is devoted to sharing stories and experiences. Participants tell me over and over again how important it has been for them to discover a place where they have permission to tell their stories and to talk about their loss. They feel pressured by family and friends to get on with their lives, to get over their loss, and to move beyond their grief. Getting over the loss of a loved one, however, is not what they want to do. They want to examine the tragedy of loss for meaning. They don’t want their loved one to be “over.”
In the support group, it is almost as if the participants are learning a new language - the language of loss and grief. Some days an individual will sit and listen for most of the session. That same person may speak tentatively at another time. Then a day will come when the same person has a lot to say. It reminds me of a child first learning to speak. When that child discovers a set of sounds that works - that gets attention, or yields desired results - the sounds are repeated over and over again in a burst of pure joy. Once a grieving person finds words for their story, they find joy in telling that story. The story may be painful, but there is genuine liberation in being able to speak the truth about their loved one.
I remember, especially at the time of the death of my mother, being at a loss for words. I had known grief before my mother died. It had been more than 30 years since my father died. I remember doing a lot of driving and not speaking after his death. My circumstances were different when my mother died. I was immersed in the complex dynamics of a busy family. I had responsibilities for her care. And then, suddenly, there was a radical change in how I spent my time. I didn’t have the words I wished I had to express what I was feeling. I was a bit guarded with my storytelling. Some of my friends thought that I got over the grief very quickly because I returned to work and got back into the mix of things quickly. It was at lest a year later when I began to understand the complexity of that time. I now tell the story quite freely. I understand what I was experiencing much better. I have a strong sense of needing to learn how to speak of my grief after the loss.
Gregory Orr quotes Wordsworth in has extended poem, “Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved.”
Let’s remake the world with words.
Not frivolously, nor
To hide from what we fear,
But with a purpose.
Let’s,
As Wordsworth said, remove
“The dust of custom” so things
Shine again, each object arrayed
In its robe of original light.
And then we’ll see the world
As if for the first time.
As once we gazed at the beloved
Who was gazing at us.
“Let’s remake the world with words.” I think that is a good description of the task of finding meaning. We use the tool of language to discover the meaning of the experiences that we have. My teacher, Ross Snyder, used to say, “You have to work to transform lived experience into meaning.”
That work, I think, is the primary job of humanity. May we continue to discover the words.