Sometimes my youngest has trouble with words. Whatever mysterious worlds hold him together – his own internal sun, moon and Earth – line up, and emotion rises in him like a spring tide, flooding him and robbing his ability to speak. If I catch him early enough, he can still tell me what’s happening, though it’s hard. If we don’t notice the rising waters until it’s too late, his voice is gone. While he sits, nearly mute, fist pounding the space beside him, tears in his eyes, I struggle to guess at the words that elude him. Sometimes, I can find the words for him, and he collapses in relief; others, though, we’re not so lucky and all that that’s left is the language of the body. When I can, I hold him until the waters recede.
This is what happened on New Year’s Eve. I was the only adult left awake with the kids, who were waiting up for whatever magic they think happens at midnight – or at least for fireworks. I knew he had planned to walk out to the dock with the rest of us, but as the hour approached, he no longer wanted to come. When I asked him what was going on, his words were drowned out and his eyes filled with tears. I was reluctant to leave my youngest crying alone on the couch as the new year rolled in, but the others were waiting and time was short. Luckily, my partner was still awake, reading. He knows these moments, and came down to snuggle with our child while I went with the others into the dark. By the time we returned, my son was fast asleep.
These moments are frustrating, heartbreaking and, most of all, perplexing for me. I live in a world of words, trusting them to be my messengers to others, certain that I can coax them into shapes that will communicate meaning to those around me. I rely on words to tame the very emotions that, I think, overwhelm my child.
And yet. And yet.
These past months, words have often eluded me. I haven’t written here regularly. In fact, I haven’t written anywhere regularly. I’ve spent far too long staring at other people’s stories in an attempt to avoid my own. I’ve had no desire – much less ability – to put words to what I’m feeling. Instead, I’ve allowed myself to float on my own wordless tides. It’s unsettling.
Now, as 2024 begins, many people I love and admire – writers, readers and lovers of words – have chosen “one little word” for the year. I’ve tried to choose one, too, but the words have been as hard to hold as water. No word stays. As if to prove a point, I have spent some time now writing, erasing, then staring at the screen. The words slip through my fingers. What should I say? What should I not say? How do I feel? I don’t know. I want to commit to writing weekly this year. I want to say that I am grateful to know in advance some of the challenges that this year will bring. But those things aren’t true. 2024 may be the year I wrestle (again) with what a friend told me long ago: “Words put space between thought and meaning.”
I think about my sometimes wordless child, approaching the new year exhausted and curled up with his father. Perhaps this year it will be enough to hold on to those I love and ride the tides as we can, with or without the words to describe the experience. Surely, that is enough.
Persistence and Pedagogy 
Amanda, this post vibrates with emotion and passion, and the need for no words right now is every bit as powerful as staying afloat on the wordless tides that ebb and flow in your world. My hat is off to you for saying no to the OLW because that is what you see as right for you at this time. Perhaps the time will be right someday, or perhaps never, to highlight a yearly word. What I love most is that you know who you are and what works for you, and you are confident in that. Your family is blessed to have you sharing every moment and wrapping your arms around the now.
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Amanda,
As much as we hold words, love words, they do fail us. Let’s face it: We construct worlds w/ words but often use those words as a facade, a way to hide what we hold inside. I do this all the damn time. I’m a master at saying much w/ out saying anything. You have written honestly about your beautiful boy and are so vulnerable as a mom here. That’s something so vital to those of us—myself—who hide behind words. Sometimes it’s the silence that speaks loudest. Sometimes the noise of words drowns out what matters most. As I read I thought about ways to release words. If you haven’t yet met w/ a speech therapist, think about consulting one. If all medical possibilities haven’t been explored, look into those. I suspect you’ve done these things. Sending you lots of love and peace as you hold the promise of words and silences and your precious child in your heart and arms
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What a heartfelt post. I am thinking about what you said in this line: “I live in a world of words, trusting them to be my messengers to others, certain that I can coax them into shapes that will communicate meaning to those around me.” I am thinking about all the wonderful wordless picture books out there and how they communicate. Your beautiful pictures are like this for me. You give me insight and appreciation for things that no words could even begin to do. That is a gift to anyone who is blessed to see them. Thank you for that wordless gift.
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Dear one,
That last paragraph. Put it up somewhere. Perhaps this year, friend. It is absolutely, unequivocally, enough. And so much love to you and your humans. Words can be such a#$holes sometimes.
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Amanda, there’s nothing you NEED to do when it comes to writing. You are being yourself. You are trying your best. You are sharing with others when you can. This is no contest. If a word comes, so be it. If not, you’re still alive – and feeling. Of course that’s enough. Love to you in 2024!
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This post holds so much. You hold so much. And even if you used the most precise words to express what you feel and experience, they would not be the same for the reader because the reader interprets them from their perspective and experience. Hug on the other hand is a hug no matter the language.
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I “found” my word late last night so I get it. Sometimes it’s so hard to express where we are and where we want to be with a single word. Be gentle with yourself.
Like Lisa said, that final paragraph is gold.
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I’ve missed your words. They always leave me in awe and thinking. Your family is beautiful. The cuddling through the hard parts. I could picture it and it was love.
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❤️❤️❤️
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