lost in translation

Talking is not the same as writing. But since more people talk than write, those of us who write have to adapt. So we try. When others take it upon themselves to try to communicate for us to someone just out of our reach at that time, everything we know--the already identified strength we possess to express ourselves well--is called into question. And suddenly it seems like the entire fabric of the universe has become unglued. Maybe it is just OUR fabric that becomes unglued, or more correctly--unraveled.

First, I have no idea what tone of voice or facial expressions are employed by the one doing the communicating on my behalf. Would the combination of these factors accurately represent me? The choice of words--a writer's pride and glory--seem to be casually tossed about and not obsessed over like a writer would do, leaving me to wonder EXACTLY which words were spoken. Are they the ones I would have chosen? Not bloody likely. But they are, nevertheless, an attempt to communicate and as a writer I know that to be a good thing. We writers try to hold onto the hope that maybe this is the time for a meeting of the minds, an enlightenment, a eureka moment. We somehow think this impossibility is likely, even though we are well aware that under the very best circumstances, it is not. We deceive ourselves again and again. But we are writers and we can't help it.

A debriefing between the writer who longed for a conversation and the person who actually got to experience a conversation, then becomes necessary. One needs to piece together moment by moment of the conversation one didn't get to have--an exchange of thoughts and ideas meant to resemble your own, though in the back of your mind you know it must have fallen short. The question you don't want to ask ultimately arises: was my message received or lost in the process? A positive best guess is, sure, yes, you were understood completely. You know that cannot possibly be true because even in the best of conditions that never happens. Ok, once in awhile, but very rarely. So the second best guess is, I don't know. And that is where the truth can be found or not found--in the great unknown universe of inferred meanings, looks that express more than a word ever could, and the ultimate resignation that it is as good as it is ever going to get so you may as well drop it.

Sometimes after a series of misunderstandings occur and I spend my time and energy thinking of how things may have happened differently, better, and that one chance for communicating something has passed and probably failed, I wonder if it would have been better to have remained silent.

communion

A friend offered me a portion of the large, flat sesame cookie he had just purchased from a Muslim family who makes them to sell at the market, and I wondered if this could be considered communion.

Growing up Catholic gave me the sense that communion could only exist in a narrowly defined reality. The small, white, circular "host" that tasted like paper somehow dissolving on my tongue was supposed to become the body of Jesus, according to the transubstantiation doctrine. Never wanting to over-think this, for obvious reasons, I never really gave it much thought. As the old, trusted organ music was replaced by folk singers playing guitars and bongo drums, the Spirit breezed through the church changing the way things had been done for a long time and ushering in new ideas. Pretty soon people were breaking off matzos, talking about how they were striped and pierced--like the body they represented--and later even started using bread that contained that little bit of leaven that leavened the whole loaf.

As wonderful as it seemed that we were all invited to share in this beautiful moment, there was always the reminder that only those who belonged to that particular faith were truly allowed to partake. All others were welcome to partake . . . elsewhere. So as I contemplate world communion Sunday, I wonder what it is supposed to look like for all of us to break bread together.

It seems like each culture has its own kind of bread--everything from tortillas to bagels, challah to pita. Bread made with yeast and without. Quick sweet breads, and breads that need time to rise. Crispy, fluffy, chewy and filling. Some crusty breads go really well with soup. Others work well for toasting. Few experiences are as satisfying as eating a slice of freshly baked bread, warm from the oven, with butter.

With all of these different people and these different types of bread, I wonder how it would look if we each just offered a piece to the next person we met, breaking it between us so that we could each share in the fellowship it represented. Though our belief systems differ and we may follow different traditions and doctrines, could we not extend human kindness, loving one another as God loves us all? Even if we couldn't speak each other's language, wouldn't reaching toward another with a piece of some sort of bread communicate the goodwill intended? What if we could experience a world-wide communion? What then?

old enough to know better

With age comes wisdom . . . in theory. In reality, I often just find myself repeating the same situation, always hoping for a different outcome--a definition of insanity. Where I continue to fall short is in holding onto this hope, that comes from some unknown place since I am definitely NOT an optimist, and continues to get me to believe that something good will happen. Let go of the outcome, I've been told, and do not have expectations about anything. How does one live without ANY expectations?

Do we not all expect to make it through the day? Do we not expect that our spouse and children will come back home at the end of the day and we can regroup and start over tomorrow? Do we not expect that our jobs will be there when we walk through the door? Do we not ALL have some basic expectations in this life? To say we are not to expect anything sounds very Zen, but the idea that I'm going to be able to pull this off in the midst of an emotional crisis is expecting too much.

Emotions surface when special events are made known. This is when I go into my default mode resembling an adolescent girl and I wonder who wants to be my friend and invite me to the party. I would like to think I'm not alone in this thought process but do not find many willing to admit their fears of being left out. No one wants to think he or she will be left off the list. Maybe to say it out loud will somehow jinx it. No one wants to be on the outside looking in, overhearing others talking about how much fun the party will be or how awesome it was.

And yet, after all of these years of living, I find myself retracing my steps and taking that very familiar path. I am somehow shocked that it is again happening to me. You would think I would learn, but I don't. Sometimes I wonder just how many times I can recover from a broken heart.

"Friend" is one of the most difficult words for me to define. "A person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection . . ." is the way one definition begins. It is the "mutual" part that trips me up. How does one know whether or not the other person feels the same way? Isn't that demonstrated by actually sending the invitation with the expectation the recipient will accept it?

Too many memories of these failed attempts at "mutual affection" clutter my thoughts. I think of being asked to come to a party--in order to be a servant, not a guest. I remember coming to offer a tribute to the guest of honor and being told that tributes were offered earlier at another party--the one I was not invited to. And then there is the, "See you at the party" comment followed by me swallowing hard and trying not to let the tears spill out of my eyes as I am confronted with the fact that I will not be seeing that person at the party because I am not even supposed to know there is a party. I am, in fact, supposed to pretend there is no party so that the next time I see the host of the party, I will bear that person no ill will, especially if that person is my "friend." It becomes my burden to deceive the person into thinking all is well when it is not, at least for me.

So what are my choices? If invited, I can go and enjoy the mutual affection of those I consider friends, and laugh, celebrate, dance and savor the moments of shared joy. If not invited, I can once again try to gather together all of the pieces of my heart and begin another long recovery especially reserved for those of us who are sensitive enough to truly love and to risk doing so in the midst of almost certain failure. What can anyone say to alleviate the pain? It is what it is. And it hurts like hell.