Finding Words
Gorgeous example of Scottish Gaelic. *swoon*
I have spent the better part of my life trying to find the right words:����the right words for school papers, and tests, and excuses; the right words to express attraction, to break up, to try again; the right words for characters, and stories, and plot.�� My words have been my refuge, my armor, and my livelihood.
I decided recently that I wanted to learn G��idhlig.�� (Fair warning, if you read Outlander, you will find yourself wanting to��do such things.�� It has also made me dig out my old herbals, develop a fast and��furious love of whisky, and it had reminded me��how very, very much I��adore a man in a kilt.)
For once, though, words fail me.�� (Or perhaps I fail them.)�� I have to��stop and think more about what I want to say.�� (Which, knowing me, is a very prudent thing, indeed.)�� I struggle to convey my meaning and to find just the right word to express��the feeling I hold in my heart.
As��a very��verbal person, it is humbling to��try to shape the��words…the sounds…the meaning.
Every time a thought strikes me,��my hand reaches for the��English/G��idhlig dictionary so that I can try to reframe the thought.�� I have words and pronunciations written on post-it notes, tucked in my coat pocket, scribbled on the back of envelopes.�� But despite the struggle, I adore it.�� The sound of the words, the cadence, the intonation.
My children have already picked up a��few��phrases.�� This could be due to the��fact that I once told them that some words��were simply more satisfying to say in other languages…particularly��insults and curses.
My eldest child is taking French in school.�� (And she is trying to self-teach Japanese, bless her heart.�� She adores manga.)�� My middle child��is taking Spanish, but is only really fluent in the American “pre-teen” dialect.�� My youngest speaks “Boy” which, close as I can tell, consists of a bunch of grunts, snorts, and the occasional term of endearment (but only if his friends aren’t around).
I suppose this makes us polyglots.
Perhaps my mostly-forgotten-French and only-slightly-better-Spanish no longer “count,” but certainly any language I try to learn after the age of 40, based only on a love of the language, should count for something.��
Chan eil aon ch��nan gu le��r.
