Having immersed myself in cultures where people are facile with multiple languages, I came home to my monolinguistic routine. Words are pliable vessels for expressing what we think and feel. Until our capacity to mold them slips away.
I visited a woman who had a stroke. Her mouth, or brain, is less cooperative than it was when she was raising her children. The bottleneck restricts the flow of ideas, and they bounce around inside her head trying to escape.
We sat on a shady bench in the courtyard, near where two gardeners were planting pansies. I think
they worried that their work would bother us, so they held back for a bit. Then they returned to their shovels.
After a choppy attempt at conversation, I brought out my guitar and began to sing. She sang too. Maybe the forces that hold speech hostage are lulled by music, the way two headed Cerberus was. Or perhaps lyrics live in a different part of the mind. In any case
we joined voices for a dozen songs, many of them ones I wrote based on the bible. I kind of forgot that there was an audience of two.
When I stood to leave one of the gardeners approached me.
"Your voice is anointed. I was listening, and you are
anointed."
I held out my hand to shake his, and he took his gloves off. I thanked him for his words. The words that could easily have stayed locked behind his teeth, if reservedness had its way.
Maybe I will remember him, when I let reluctance to speak
with spontaneous kindness keep me mute. There are other kinds of strokes that hinder us.
May I speak generously while I still can.