language

What Is Our Gift?

/ Laura Grace Weldon / 10 Comments

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When my oldest entered the crawling stage, he was as enthralled as any baby with this new power of mobility. He’d zoom off on hands and knees at top baby speeds, sit abruptly to gaze around from an upright position, then drop back down for more high speed locomotion. He was just as thrilled with his new ability as I’d have been if I suddenly found I could fly. One afternoon he sat up mid-crawl, looked around, and flung himself down again to crawling mode as usual except he’d stopped near a corner and whacked his dear little head on it.

After being consoled back into good humor, he did something unusual. He cautiously crawled back to the spot where his head had unexpectedly smacked the wall. As he approached it he made quiet sounds of distress, as if talking to himself, then carefully leaned his head forward to touch the corner several times, each time doing an imitation of himself crying. He didn’t want to be distracted or picked up. This was his work, to understand what hurt him. To gain some mastery over it. I was watching a very young storyteller re-tell his own story to himself before he even had words.

For the next few months he did the same thing when he was hurt or scared by something – he’d go back to reexperience on his own terms. When he was able to speak well enough to talk about what he’d experienced, he told us his stories instead.

It’s hard work to make sense of everything we undergo. This is true in all of life’s stages. It’s an ongoing process, because we understand with a wider perspective as the decades go by and the storehouse of experiences we draw on expands. That’s true of wonders and joys. Even more true for the wrongs done to us and the wrongs we’ve done to others, however ignorantly or unintentionally. Oftentimes, like a cosmic lesson, we go through similar difficulties over and over as we gradually grasp ever deeper insights they offer. Making sense of our experiences and sharing what we’ve learned with others may, truly, form the foundation of life’s meaning.

That’s why we humans do not need machines to do our thinking and creating for us. It’s hard to compose that honest apology note, to come up with just the right eulogy through your tears, to give the heartfelt graduation speech you wrote. That it is hard is the point. Even writing an interoffice email that says what you want it to say the way you want to say it can be painstaking. Yet each time you make yourself do this, you get better at doing it.

When we write we activate our reasoning, our creativity, and the intangible us-ness in the right now. The process of writing helps us understand aspects of ourselves we didn’t recognize until that moment. As Elie Wiesel say, “I write to understand as much to be understood.” That’s true of the most emotionally challenging things we’ll ever write. It’s also true of the very real intellectual muscle we build in necessary writing – informing our child’s teacher there’s no research-backed reason to impose homework on students, telling our congressional representatives why we hope they will vote a certain way, respectfully explaining to HR why a new policy is ridiculous.

It is also remarkably healing to write about difficulties we’ve endured. Expressive writing gives us just enough distance to better reflect on and draw meaning from our traumas. Repeated studies show that people who wrote about their most negative life experiences reported higher life satisfaction, fewer physical and mental health problems, improved sleep, and better relationships. Before and after medical tests showed (in relation to the patient’s preexisting health problems) improved immune function, lower blood pressure, better lung function, reduced pain, reduced viral load, better liver function, and more. Many of these improvements persisted for weeks!   

As we write, we build ever-greater reasoning capabilities along with a greater ability to see things from another person’s perspective. Balancing our individual wants with consideration of others has been essential throughout all of humanity’s time on earth. When reciprocity fails, families fall apart. Communities fall apart. Civilizations fall apart. In this time of planetary crisis we need more than ever a world of people who can think for themselves, respond rationally to high-pressure persuasion campaigns, read and consider long form writing, use logic in forming opinions, and see beyond what billionaire interests want us to see. A not-inconsiderable part of those abilities come from reading as well as writing even the most mundane communications, rather than handing it over to AI.

Words regurgitated by a machine are not considered. Not generated by our ideas. They are not our words. What will we lose if we let AI take over our writing tasks—texts, workplace emails, court appeals, medical school essays, movie scripts, love letters? We lose ourselves.  

Artificial “intelligence” cannot possess genuine feeling. It cannot collide, as we sometimes do, with the crushing desire to put into words feelings so large that they are essentially inexpressible.

What you write is truly unique to you. David Adger, a linguistics professor, explains, “Human language is amazingly creative. If you make up a sentence of any complexity, and search for that exact sentence on the Internet, it’s almost never there. Virtually everything we say is novel.” 

I realize there are useful applications for AI. It can help whale researchers code thousands of hours of cetacean recordings (as described in How to Speak Whale by Tom Mustil). It can advance medical research by combing through every published drug study to find existing medications that can also treat rare diseases (which is what David Fajgenbaum’s Every Cure organization does). It can decipher 2,000 year old scrolls buried by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. But there is no valid reason for the vast number of environmentally devastating and potentially democracy threatening data centers going up everywhere. There is no valid reason for AI to be imposed on all of us at school, work, medical centers, government agencies, and businesses we interact with every day.

From our earliest days, what we have to say and how we say it has a lot to do with who we are—to our very core. Let’s not give that up.

“What is our gift? And how shall we use it?…Other beings can fly, see at night, rip open trees with their claws, make maple syrup. What can humans do? We may not have wings or leaves, but humans do have words. Language is our gift and our responsibility. I’ve come to think of writing as an act of reciprocity with the living land. Words to remember old stories, words to tell new ones, stories that bring science and spirit back together.”  

~ Robin Wall Kimmerer, “People of Corn, People of Light”

Art by Chloe Johnson

Seeing Each Other As Loves

/ Laura Grace Weldon / 4 Comments

If there’s a deep end, I just jumped in.

I have long used endearments when addressing humans I love but also dogs, cats, cows, goats, birds, insects, and yes, the beings most consider inanimate objects. I’ve probably been in above my head for a long time because I can’t help myself from addressing participants in my writing classes as “dear people” and “beloved writers” and worse.

But today I was checking out at the local market. I always put my fabric bags on the belt before loading my items. The cute young checkout person was preoccupied talking to the cute young bagging person, and I was preoccupied with ineptly “tapping” my card, so none of us noticed right away that the bagger was loading my things into plastic despite the sturdy cloth bags in front of her. “Oh, sorry love,” I said “but I brought cloth bags.” She looked up, startled. Then she said, “I’ve never been corrected so sweetly.” She went back to talking to the cute checkout guy.

I recognize calling a stranger “love” is likely a step too far. I know some people actively detest being called “honey” or “dear” or other overly familiar words. That’s their right and I want to respect that. Actually, I rarely use endearments when speaking to strangers. But some people have a gleam so noticeable to me, even if they seem shut down (maybe especially if they seem shut down) that I can’t help myself.

Brief conversations with strangers filled with dry wit, shared insight, and surprising alignment seem to happen more often for me now. That’s a side benefit of getting older. Those of us who are dismissed as irrelevant are, in a way, freer. Who expects to have a moment where they are seen, really seen, by someone who comfortably goes about unseen?  

I used to call only the people I love “loves.” Maybe I’ve watched too many UK series or read too many old British novels, but that word is stuck now. It’s the way I hope to see others — as loves. As beautiful people. As complex and strange and conflicted as we all are.

Seeing others as whole people is particularly difficult when we’re pitted against one another by systemic forces that place seemingly insurmountable barriers between us. <gestures broadly at world>

And yet, some people step beautifully beyond these divisions. Last week I read about an LA man who approached a phalanx of federal agents working for ICE, all of them heavily armed and masked up to their eyeballs. Much as I like to think I am a pacifist, I see them as poorly paid* enemies of justice and compassion and democracy itself. The man who approached them was carrying little white slips of paper that turned out to be copies of his most recent two-week pay stub. He walked along the line attempting to pass out these slips, saying some version of, “I know everyone needs a paycheck, but you don’t have to do this.  Come work with us. This is what a union carpenter makes.” 

This man saw these armed agents as fellow human who need to work, just as he does. Seeing others in their full humanity is the heart of nonviolent action. Fact-filled or expletive-filled rants against someone is useless in changing their minds, and is likely to more firmly entrench their views. As Stephen Jay Gould noted, “leave an escape hatch for your opponent so that he can gracefully swing over to your side without an embarrassing loss of face.”

Open dialogue with the very people she condemned is what inspired Megan Phelps-Roper to renounce her membership in the extremist Westboro Baptist Church. It’s what led neo-Nazi skinhead Christian Picciolini to stop spreading hate and work to lead others away from such ideologies. It’s how Daryl Davis, a Black man, befriends Ku Klux Klan members in hopes they will have a change of heart.

Oh, I did another quick errand at another locally owned store. My cashier was a beautiful young man with the fluffiest of Afros. We commiserated over the bankruptcy of a longstanding area business. Somehow, in the magical way conversations happen, he told me he was a “survivor” of hideous corporate policies from his last job and we agreed rapacious capitalism was destroying our country and I told him about our food co-op. As I left, he blew me a kiss.  

*These federal agents are no longer poorly paid. Thanks to the horrific tax overhaul bill recently signed, the budget for ICE enforcement is larger than Russia’s total military budget. ICE is now the highest-funded federal law enforcement agency in history, with more money than the budgets of the DEA, ATF, FBI, US Marshals, and Bureau of Prisons combined. Starting this week, these masked warrantless federal agents will be offered a signing bonus of 42K and a six-figure salary.

Definitions and Beyond

/ Laura Grace Weldon / 7 Comments

“Some words are more than letters on a page, don’t you think? They have shape and texture. They are like bullets, full of energy, and when you give one breath you can feel its sharp edge against your lip.” ~Pip Williams

The Dictionary of Lost Words, by Pip Williams, is an engaging novel written in a gentle style that evokes an era of teapots, shawls, and regular correspondence. (Okay, still my era….) I appreciate it for its love of words and books as well as for topics including class division, suffrage, and the British home front during WWI.

The main character’s galvanizing focus is on why some words were deemed worthy of becoming dictionary entries while others were not. Her lifelong work became saving words overlooked because they were too common, not in print, or insufficiently upper-class male to deserve dictionary space.

I grew up in a word-loving family and my own kids have taken that much farther than I might have imagined. When very young they developed an unnamed game of verbal jousting I call, in this post, Game of Slurs, although the post doesn’t go into just how amusingly over-the-top they could get with inventive word pairings. They also played, with only minor nudges from me, all sorts of dictionary-based games including my favorite, Blackbird. And all of us have unconsciously incorporated words into our everyday conversations that, apparently, seem strange to those around us. When they were younger, some of my kids consciously modified what words they used when, but these days they not only use whatever obscure words they like, they also, well, “experiment” on others to see if they can get them to start using such words too.

I’m grateful it’s now commonplace for everyday vernacular to show up in print and online dictionaries, although dictionaries will never be fast enough keep up with linguistic improvisations in music, film, literature, and everyday conversation. (There are several sites where you can look up words first found in print in your birth year. Merriam-Webster’s version of this includes sixty words for 1992 including buzzkill, civil union, exoplanet, hacktivism, meh, skeezy, smack talk, and woo-woo.)

In many ways, the language(s) we speak shape the way we think. We will never know what ways of thinking about, seeing, and interacting with the world are lost to us when we speak only one language. This is even more troubling in relation to entire languages going extinct. The Linguistic Society of America reports there are more than 6,500 languages used worldwide. Eighty percent, by some estimates, may vanish within the next century.

My problem, as a writer, takes place in a much smaller arena — my head. Much as I love words, it often seems impossible to fit meaning more than partway into language. I might manage to get a pinch of the inexpressible in, but that’s it, and only if I’m lucky. It’s like trying to stuff a galaxy into a suitcase and still zip it closed.

I hope we all do what we can, in these troubling times, to use language clearly, kindly, and well. Even more, that we make every effort to listen.

Linguistic Improvisation Via Honda

/ Laura Grace Weldon / 1 Comment

I’m back to joyfully jaunting around in my 17-year-old rust-pocked but trusty Honda to meetings, classes, and social gatherings. (The same Honda once starred in the Goose & Honda Love Story. Click HERE to read that weirdness.) Because I’m short and the driver’s seat is somewhat slumped, I position myself as far right on the seat as possible so the shoulder harness doesn’t catch me across the throat. And because my phone is often busy spitting out GPS directions, I listen to audiobooks on CD.

Each recorded book borrowed from the library comes in a plastic case harder to open than a pickle jar, at least while driving, so I situate the next disc on a soft fabric shopping bag on the passenger seat, careful to cover it with the another bag lest some convergence of sunlight and disc angle spark a conflagration. It’s entirely worth it since audiobooks combine the kindergarten-like pleasure of being read to with the magic of good literature.

That is, till hot weather returns. My CD player does not get along with my AC. I get about 20 to 30 minutes of audio play before the disc freezes up. Literally chills until it’s unplayable. I take it out, warm the disc against my chest, then slide it back in and stab buttons until the narration returns to where I left off. Sometimes I’m merging or looking for a turn-off and the disc plays on through weirdly repeated phrases and jittery vowel stutters. It is like innovative slam poetry or experimental theater coming at me right from the car speakers. I can’t help but listen for meaning.

It adds an entirely new layer to The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehsi Coates when the phrase “how much you see” repeats in a loop. It gives me more to consider about The Night Watchman by Louise Erdrich when the single word “again” is stretched, over and over, to a whistle-sharp refrain. And when the narrator’s voice gets stuck on a single sound in J. Drew Lanham’s The Home Place, it becomes both less and more than a word, like visiting a foreign country where someone keeps saying the same thing as if repetition might aid comprehension.

I’m not annoyed, I’m entranced. It’s strangely fascinating to have these audio glitches pop up in the midst of an already-fascinating book. I am grateful to my elderly car and old technology for teaching me a whole new appreciation for words.     

Clichés

/ Laura Grace Weldon / Leave a comment

“Story is an affirmation of our ties to one another.” 
~Terry Tempest Williams

My spouse and I are listening to a not-so-great audiobook as our long drive’s entertainment. After an hour or so I turn it off for a much-needed break. Mark is surprised I don’t like it. (Apparently he hasn’t heard my sighs.) I suggest the problem is not the plot but the clichéd writing. That’s when my marriage comes into question.

This man, with whom I have made children and to whom I have pledged lifelong fidelity, claims clichés are expected. He sees my expression but unwisely goes on to say he believe clichés are actually necessary.

It’s lazy writing, I tell him. As an editor I excise clichés with a fierce pen. (Although we editors no longer edit with pens.) 

Because we’re stuck in the car, I give him a bit of the cliché talk I share with writing classes. I say thanks to imaging studies, we know what writers have long understood. Sensory-rich language, particularly when embedded in stories, makes writing come alive for the reader.

When we take in straight-up information like a lecture or textbook, our brains show activity largely in the language-processing area. This indicates we are doing the basic work of decoding sounds or symbols into recognizable meaning. In contrast, a well-told story activates not only our language processing areas but also other areas of the brain – putting us inside the story. Say we read about walking into a much loved rib joint where smokers are finishing up bbq pork, greens and onions are frying, a milkshake is being poured from one of those chilled stainless steel malt cups. Our sensory cortex is activated as if we smell the smoker, hear the greens frying, see the thick milkshake slump into the glass. We may even salivate in anticipation.

Consider the way news comes to us. During a quick televised report we might hear brief facts about a suspected break-in on the west side of town, no one hurt, police investigating. We process the information along with the day’s avalanche of facts, unlikely to pay much attention unless we live on the west side or have our own troubling break-in memory. But if we’re told the story differently, we experience the story’s events. Say the homeowner is interviewed. She describes sitting on the couch late at night, snuggled up in her pajamas watching a movie. She thinks she hears something on the back porch. She mutes the volume, listens, gulping back her fear. When the doorknob rattles she grabs her phone. Suddenly broken glass is scattering across the kitchen floor. She leaps from the couch and runs to the front door, her fear-moistened hand scrabbling to turn the knob, and then she’s running barefoot across the snow to her neighbor’s house. She pounds on the door, almost collapsing in relief when she’s welcomed inside. As she tells the story, you react.. Emotional areas of your brain for fear and relief light up. Your motor cortex lights up in the area controlling your hand as if you too are scrabbling at the doorknob, then lights up in your legs and feet as if you too are running down the steps and across the snow.

That’s why I expound on this with my writing students, I tell Mark. So they know to let the reader’s arms feel their strain as they try to lift Grandma out of bed, preserving her dignity though they feel like weeping. So they help readers feel enraged at their high school math teacher’s expression when he suggested they drop out of calculus. So the reader’s skin prickles when they write about an unfair workplace. Mark is nonplussed. This man, who tears up at animal reunion videos, says maybe people don’t feel things as intensely as I do.

These are fighting words, but I’m still in explain-mode.

I’m talking brain imaging, I say. Our brains mirror other brains; that’s how we understand one another. He’s still got his patient listener face on, so I continue. This explains how clichés impair writing. Because when we hear a cliché like put the cart before the horse our brains don’t evidence any interest. That saying was originally a clever use of language the first 1,000 or 100,000 times it was said but our brains react minimally to clichés. Brain imaging shows we take them in only at the most basic level. Phrases like “scared out of my wits” or “made of money” were original once, but now they deaden our responses.  Besides, many clichés in common usage come to us from generations ago, when everyone knew how foolhardy it was to put the actual cart before the actual horse. Take the cliché “caught red-handed.” This likely came from centuries back, when serfs worked the land of some lord or another. There were strict rules against poaching. Even if one’s family was starving on what little they could grow, it was illegal to hunt on the lord’s land. Caught red-handed meant you had blood on your hands and would be severely punished.         

Mark alleges he still likes clichés and gleefully adds the cliché, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”* It’s a game now. We continue to toss out ever more ridiculous clichés until we weary of them and put the audiobook back on.

Listening to it, we finally we reach a cliché-related accord. I agree with him that a book’s character can and perhaps should use clichés if it’s in keeping with that character. In this pop mystery, I can see why a character or two would talk this way. Mark agrees with me that the book we’re listening to also uses clichés in description and plot development outside of character narration, and it’s off-putting. We listen a few more miles and he says. “Now I can’t help but hear all the clichés. Thanks.” We give up on the book.

Yes, we’re still married. And yes, I still give that cliché talk but have learned to keep it in the classroom.

*The expression, “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” first appeared in a book of husbandry back in 1523.  It’s also not true. Studies show you can teach old dogs new tricks, in fact senior dogs do better than young dogs when learning tasks that require inference or reasoning.

First published in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine.

Translating Intolerance

/ Laura Grace Weldon / 9 Comments

Ceiling in Cardiff Castle (If Google translate is correct: Nenfwd yng Nghastell Caerdydd)

“This place tried to turn my words into stones,” Seren says. She moved to rural Ohio less than six months ago with her husband and three daughters. Her oldest is a college freshman, the younger girls are in 3rd and 5th grade.

Seren grew up in New York City, an only child of busy parents who traveled often for business. Her Welsh-speaking grandmother lived with them and raised Seren on the stories, songs, and traditions of her homeland.  In her teens, Seren finally  visited Wales with her grandmother.  Soon after, her grandmother passed away but the language she imparted to her granddaughter thrived. Seren went on to get an undergraduate degree in history and a graduate degree in Welsh studies.

She and her husband agreed they would raise their children in a dual-language home. Seren speaks Welsh to her children exclusively, her husband speaks to them in English. This is true both at home and in public. They know the benefits of being bilingual. Here are just a few:

  • Bilingual kids have enhanced social skills and communication abilities. In part this has to do with more experience understanding the perspective of the person speaking. This involves determining social cues and what’s called “theory of mind” — the ability to recognize one’s own motivations (intentions, beliefs, desires, knowledge, etc) and the understanding that others have their own motivations.
  • Dual-language students, in one study,  were a full grade level ahead of their monolingual peers in English-reading skills by the end of middle school. Some children in the study were just learning English, yet they outperformed monolingual native English speakers on tests. Chances are this has to do with the way learning two languages enhances executive function (working memory, impulse control, focus, and attention). Studies continue to show bilingual children have stronger executive function.
  • Early exposure to a second language affects how the brain organizes languages and improves its ability to learn a new language later in life, even if the first language is forgotten.
  • Bilingual people continue to benefit into old age if they continue to use both languages frequently. Brain scans indicate that bilingual people develop greater cognitive reserves. This extra gray matter makes a big difference. In people whose brains show similar levels of dementia, bilingual people show symptoms on average four years later than a monolingual person experiences them. This also may be true in stroke recovery. One study showed cognitive recovery was twice as likely for dual language speakers as for monolinguals after a stroke. Overall, using one’s brain to speak two languages actually delays cognitive decline.

Growing up, Seren says she remembers being a little worried each time a new friend met her grandmother because she and her grandmother spoke to each other in another language. But without fail her friends thought her grandmother was cool. Many of her friends incorporated a few Welsh words into their conversations in a way that became their own informal slang.

Seren’s older daughter also struggled a bit with a bilingual home when she was a teenager. But she’s also known from the time she was a small child that fewer and fewer people speak Welsh. Only 11 percent of people living in Wales speak it fluently, a little over 300,000 people in total. When their daughter is home, she quite naturally speaks in one language to her mother and another to her father.

Since moving to Ohio, however, this bilingual family met with difficulties they never expected. While at a school function for her younger daughter, a classmate’s mother overheard Seren speaking to her daughter in Welsh. That girl later spread the word that she wasn’t allowed to play with Seren’s child because she “wasn’t American.” (Every member of Seren’s family is an American-born citizen, although that’s not the point.)

Another time her middle daughter had a friend over. When Seren and her two younger daughters exchanged a few amused Welsh words about the snack being put on the table, the 10-year-old friend accused them of laughing about her and said she wanted to go home.

And waiting in line at a grocery store, Seren and her daughters spoke to each other in Welsh while the woman in front of them was being checked out. The woman said loudly to the cashier, “It’s disgusting the way people come to this country and can’t even learn the language. Makes me sick.”

Seren says she can’t imagine what other people must be enduring to keep their culture and language alive in a time when frightening acts of intolerance are on the rise.

After her daughters pleaded with her, she made a concession. For the first time in 18 years, Seren changed the way she speaks to her daughters. They now keep Welsh to themselves. Speaking only English around others, she says, “is like losing Nain all over again.”

But she hasn’t given up. She is working with the elementary school to put on an annual international fair where the world’s diversity will be celebrated in song, story, art, and food. She’s also planning to invite new friends and neighbors to a traditional Welsh Christmas party at her home this year.

Translation: Adversity brings knowledge and knowledge wisdom
Approximate pronunciation: Ad-vid ah thoog wibod-eyth ah gwibod-eyth doy-theen-eb

The Language We Speak Shapes Us

/ Laura Grace Weldon / 6 Comments

interesting words in other languages

When I was in elementary school, my cool cousin Arlene attended high school in Germany as a foreign exchange student. The whole concept of leaving one’s home and one’s language was inconceivable to an anxious little kid like me. Arlene’s coolness factor instantly became far vaster.

I saw her when she came home that summer. It was one of those extended family get-togethers where younger kids eat at separate tables, but I did my best to stare at her from afar. It was obvious to me her time in Europe had already made her more sophisticated than our not-well-traveled adult relatives. I’d always wanted to be like her (and like her older sister Laura and our second cousin Linda) but that jig was up. I could never hope to be as confident and poised as she was after her time abroad. I listened carefully when she answered a question about polishing her language skills. I’ve never forgotten what she said.

“You know you’ve got it when you start to dream in another language.”

To speak another language seemed amazing . To dream in it was, to me, unimaginable.

Our thoughts, or at least our perspectives, may very well be shaped by the language(s) we speak. The structure of language matters because of the way it categorizes and labels —shaping our view of reality.

One recent study looked at people who spoke both German and English, as well as those who spoke only one of those languages. Research subjects were shown video clips of people walking towards their cars, cycling towards stores, and so on. Because of the way the separate languages work, German monolingual speakers tended to describe the entirety of the scene, including the person’s action as well as their apparent goal. English monolingual speakers tended to describe only the person’s actions. When it came to people fluent in both languages, Germans who spoke English were goal-focused when tested in their home countries unless they were primed to speak and think in English, in which case they were action-focused. And English speakers who spoke German were more action-focused unless they were primed to speak and think in German, in which case they were more goal-focused. So the language they were using to both think and speak affected they way they described a scene. Okay, maybe that’s just semantics.

But there are enormous benefits to thinking in another language. For example, people who are bilingual appear to make better choices when they think them through in a non-native language. Researcher Boaz Keysar who studies decision bias, writes,  “A foreign language provides a distancing mechanism that moves people from the immediate intuitive system to a more deliberate mode of thinking.”

And there are drawbacks. The language we speak may affect how we think about and see other people. Even people of our own ethnicity. Research shows that Israeli Arabs who speak both Arabic and Hebrew show weaker positive associations with common Arabic names when tested in the Hebrew language. This research says a great deal about culture as well as language.

Our words come not only from our mouths, they come from our worldview. In the Mohawk language, for example, the individual doesn’t stand alone but is in spoken of in relationship to a larger whole.  While in English we’d say “to bury,” in Mohawk it is said as “to wrap his body with the blanket of our Mother Earth.” And when one is ill, it’s not said, “I am sick” but instead, “the sickness has come to me.”

I am sadly monolingual now that my Spanish lessons from middle school have faded from memory. But I am fascinated by language, especially terms for which there are no equivalents in English. We’ve all experienced ideas too large to explain and feelings inexpressible through mere words. Surely every language contains words that convey something crucial yet untranslatable, concepts that are perfectly clear in one tongue yet come out as awkwardly clumped phrases in other languages. They are unique to the geography and culture, yet globally relevant. Here are a few examples.

The Turkish word huzur literally means “presence” but takes on larger connotations having to do with serenity, particularly the inner peace that comes from living in a routine.

The Indonesian word jayus refers to a joke told so poorly that others cannot help but laugh.

The Irish word leaspáin describes those illusory flickering lights that dance before one’s eyes, caused by exhaustion or a knock on the head.

The  Yup’ik word name Ellam Yua is not only the name for the deity considered “person of the universe” but also has to do with one’s spiritual debt to the nature, an outlook of generosity or grace, and awareness of the soul inherent in all beings and things.

The Italian word commuovere often translates as “heartwarming,” but is typically used to refer to a story that moved you to tears.

The Welsh word hiraeth is translated as “homesickness” but means much more. It implies a sense of belonging to the land itself and, when away, an emptiness that can only be filled by returning to Wales. Even then, it’s a yearning that can’t entirely be met, a wistfulness for something that no longer exists.

The Japanese word tsundoku is leaving a book unread after purchasing it.

The Greek word μεράκι (meraki) means enthusiasm and attention to aesthetic outcome when performing a task, however ordinary.

The Iroquois or Haudenosaunee word ondinnonk can refer to the innermost aspect of one’s nature as well as to a soul wish as expressed in dreams.

The Swedish word gökotta means to wake up early specifically to go outside and hear the first birds sing.

The Thai word nam jai translates literally as ‘water heart,’ and refers to the selfless nature of a person who gives without any expectation of anything in return.

The Korean word hwabyung describes the stress-induced illness of repressed anger, particularly related to unfairness that cannot be addressed.

The Russian word poshlost means what is trashy and vulgar but pretends to be profound or beautiful. To apply the deadly label of poshlism to something is not only an aesthetic judgment but also a moral indictment.

The Italian word vendemmia simply translates to “grape harvest,” but means much more — the sense of community and celebration that comes with the harvest.

The Yiddish word trepverter means a witty retort you think of only when it’s too late to use.

The Tamil word kindal is to praise a person so much that the praise turns into a insult or teasing.

The German word torschlusspanik translates as “gate-closing panic” and is used to describe the fear of diminishing opportunities as one ages.

The Hokkien (Chinese dialect) word lau hong translates as “leaked air” and describes food that’s meant to be crispy or hard, such as crackers, turned soft.

The German word kummerspeck refers to excess weight gained from emotional overeating. Literally, grief bacon.

The Portuguese word saudade refers to an intense, overwhelming longing for something that may never exist, such as an impossibly perfect soulmate.

The Japanese word yūgen names the sense that nature possesses a mysterious beauty that can be seen but not understood.

The Yup’ik term ataucimek umyuarluteng means being of one mind. It refers to the the way people in relationship, whether a couple or a village, flourishes when they function in agreement rather than pushing one’s own purpose ahead of others.