The path always dips in and out of light and shadow; the other face often invisible but ever-present. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I sat down to write about Brittany (in our yesterday’s rare day out on the Finistère coast, and in sunshine! – for my daughter’s birthday), no-dig gardening and sowing more broad beans. Oh and to offer you a winter-garden vegan recipe or two.
really timely piece -- silence is so double edged--in Welsh there is a wonderful word for what is too awful to speak of -- anhraethadol, which I came across a lot in relation to deaths in the slate mines--our local one had been known as 'the Slaughterhouse'. And I was also reminded of Wittgenstein coming to the end of what could be said -- 'whereof one cannot speak one must be silent'.
But it's also the case that silence can be complicity and a refusal to witness. Paradoxically, it is sometimes the most unspeakable things that we need to call out, even if there is some inarticulacy in the face of how awful the situation is.
I've been thinking a lot about discernment and this feels like an area where we need a great deal of that -- when to speak out and when to recognise the limits of language.
Thank you Jan for your thoughtful and wide-ranging response; you are right that it is the most unspeakable things that often need to be spoken.
Discernment is such a powerful quality, I think.
'Anhraethadol' - like hiraeth – Welsh often has words that English doesn't, even though I believe both languages are quite nuanced. Thank you for that word – I didn't know it.
A Radio 4 piece musing on the Welsh language presented the gem: that Welsh shepherds can count a hundred sheep faster in their native tongue than their English counterparts can!
I know that the first digits in both Welsh and Cornish are largely single syllables; no idea about the later numbers, but if that's true they must be brief too, as, say, ninety-seven is only three syllables. But in French – quatre-vingt-dix-sept – it would take a long time to count sheep.
lovely, deep reflections. We live with the dichotomy of having been given powerful tools while at the same time our power as individuals, and even of goodness, seems to be diminishing. There are no easy answers, and being honest about that, as you are, is a good place to start.
That's a thoughtful response, Rob, and thank you for it.
One of the things I cherish about getting older is that I have given up thinking there will be clear black and white answers. In one of my Buddhist teaching sanghas – I mean a group to which I belonged, not one I led - we had many discussions about 'situationist ethics'. At first, I was suspicious of the idea; gradually I saw not only the sense in it but the sheer usefulness of its application: that it didn't mean less integrity, but indeed more – that there are no one-size answers.
Oh I do, I do, Rob (I think that's how I found you). I've rated him since the early days of Dark Mountain (to which I was a contributor). I've just bought his book, too.
This is a heartfelt piece of writing, Roselle. Thank you. I think it's worth remembering that we must each find our own way to cope and contribute, whether that involves words (often too many of these around, and I say that as a writer) or the power of silence. I love that in speaking for yourself without a whiff of preaching, you always give me food for thought.
You touch heavily on thoughts that have occupied me so intensely recently I’ve had to force myself to stop. I think we can drive ourselves quite mad with the utter horror that is happening in this world but we can do nothing to change it. Speaking of it, in my very limited and humble opinion, is almost like the glorification of blood sports, I cannot abide either…
Sometimes silence shows as much solidarity as shouting about it Roselle, in the case of all that’s so terribly sad in this world, I tend to veer towards the silent option. Your friends response of « elective mutism » which I love, is perhaps the more sensible approach.
I hope you have escaped the deluge this week, I know we haven’t… xxx
I think this is always a hard choice, Susie, isn't it? Each to their own in terms of their way forward. I also know exactly what you're talking about when you speak of driving ourselves mad by thinking about it. But I do believe we can make changes, each of us, that help – even by minute increments.
Thank you for commenting, as always. And - guess what? - we've had 2 or 3 gentle days! I wish you some :-)
I like this reflective piece so much and, indeed, it reflects my own place in the mayhem of the planet. It is for this reason I am concentrating on the power of essays, where micro and macro experiences cross and collide. Sometimes it helps when words emerge from silences.
really timely piece -- silence is so double edged--in Welsh there is a wonderful word for what is too awful to speak of -- anhraethadol, which I came across a lot in relation to deaths in the slate mines--our local one had been known as 'the Slaughterhouse'. And I was also reminded of Wittgenstein coming to the end of what could be said -- 'whereof one cannot speak one must be silent'.
But it's also the case that silence can be complicity and a refusal to witness. Paradoxically, it is sometimes the most unspeakable things that we need to call out, even if there is some inarticulacy in the face of how awful the situation is.
I've been thinking a lot about discernment and this feels like an area where we need a great deal of that -- when to speak out and when to recognise the limits of language.
Thank you Jan for your thoughtful and wide-ranging response; you are right that it is the most unspeakable things that often need to be spoken.
Discernment is such a powerful quality, I think.
'Anhraethadol' - like hiraeth – Welsh often has words that English doesn't, even though I believe both languages are quite nuanced. Thank you for that word – I didn't know it.
A Radio 4 piece musing on the Welsh language presented the gem: that Welsh shepherds can count a hundred sheep faster in their native tongue than their English counterparts can!
Bask in that if you will…
Lovely! Thanks.
I know that the first digits in both Welsh and Cornish are largely single syllables; no idea about the later numbers, but if that's true they must be brief too, as, say, ninety-seven is only three syllables. But in French – quatre-vingt-dix-sept – it would take a long time to count sheep.
A French shepherd would just throw up his shoulders when he lost count at dix-sept and then do a Gallic puff of breath in detached annoyance :)
Brilliant. Probably also true ;-)
Or not bother to count them anyway.
lovely, deep reflections. We live with the dichotomy of having been given powerful tools while at the same time our power as individuals, and even of goodness, seems to be diminishing. There are no easy answers, and being honest about that, as you are, is a good place to start.
That's a thoughtful response, Rob, and thank you for it.
One of the things I cherish about getting older is that I have given up thinking there will be clear black and white answers. In one of my Buddhist teaching sanghas – I mean a group to which I belonged, not one I led - we had many discussions about 'situationist ethics'. At first, I was suspicious of the idea; gradually I saw not only the sense in it but the sheer usefulness of its application: that it didn't mean less integrity, but indeed more – that there are no one-size answers.
If you don't already follow Dougald Hine, at Writing Home, I think you would him him interesting in how he thinks about these things.
Oh I do, I do, Rob (I think that's how I found you). I've rated him since the early days of Dark Mountain (to which I was a contributor). I've just bought his book, too.
This is a heartfelt piece of writing, Roselle. Thank you. I think it's worth remembering that we must each find our own way to cope and contribute, whether that involves words (often too many of these around, and I say that as a writer) or the power of silence. I love that in speaking for yourself without a whiff of preaching, you always give me food for thought.
Oh thank you – as I wrote I thought 'Is this too preachy?' - Glad you thought not.
You touch heavily on thoughts that have occupied me so intensely recently I’ve had to force myself to stop. I think we can drive ourselves quite mad with the utter horror that is happening in this world but we can do nothing to change it. Speaking of it, in my very limited and humble opinion, is almost like the glorification of blood sports, I cannot abide either…
Sometimes silence shows as much solidarity as shouting about it Roselle, in the case of all that’s so terribly sad in this world, I tend to veer towards the silent option. Your friends response of « elective mutism » which I love, is perhaps the more sensible approach.
I hope you have escaped the deluge this week, I know we haven’t… xxx
I think this is always a hard choice, Susie, isn't it? Each to their own in terms of their way forward. I also know exactly what you're talking about when you speak of driving ourselves mad by thinking about it. But I do believe we can make changes, each of us, that help – even by minute increments.
Thank you for commenting, as always. And - guess what? - we've had 2 or 3 gentle days! I wish you some :-)
I like this reflective piece so much and, indeed, it reflects my own place in the mayhem of the planet. It is for this reason I am concentrating on the power of essays, where micro and macro experiences cross and collide. Sometimes it helps when words emerge from silences.
Lovely; and I love too what you say about micro and macro crossing and colliding. Thank you, Pauline.