The Opposite of Ease
“I can’t just speak and say nothing. That’s how we lose ourselves, the poem and I, in the hopeless attempt to write the things that burn.”
Language fascinates me—its structure, its origins, its evolution. Recently, I discussed this passion with a mentor who shared an enlightening perspective. He described his experience leading a new group of students, emphasizing how much he learns just by observing the language they use—their vocabulary, the phrases they cherish, and the words that resonate with them. This encounter reinforced a crucial lesson: the importance of tailoring our speech to ensure it is understood, not just heard.
However, this conversation led me to ponder the integrity of our language. Have we, as a society, lost the ability to communicate effectively with even the simplest of words? Despite my fondness for intricate and sophisticated vocabulary, I've begun exploring the roots of the most basic words, dissecting them to understand their origins, usage, and adaptations.
Alejandra Pizarnik once expressed, "I can't just speak and say nothing. That's how we lose ourselves, the power and I, in the hopeless attempt to write the things that burn." Her words resonate deeply with me, highlighting the peril of using language without substance—of diminishing our essence through empty words. This insight fuels my commitment to meaningful communication, to finding words that truly convey the burning truths inside us.
Take, for instance, the way I now describe my life—not as 'easy', but as being lived "with ease". This subtle shift in terminology prompted me to think about what constitutes the opposite of "ease". And so, I arrived at "dis-ease"—commonly known as disease.
We typically think of disease as a physical ailment—cancer, organ failure, and other bodily afflictions. Yet, I believe that diseases often begin as disturbances in our mental state: a collection of unaddressed thoughts, suppressed emotions, and neglected spiritual needs that gradually manifest as physical symptoms. Our bodies are not just biological systems but emotional landscapes where energy flows and sometimes stagnates, creating fertile ground for illness.
When symptoms finally demand our attention, we express surprise and query, "What happened?" We label these manifestations as addiction, depression, or inflammation, but at their core, they are tangible signs of our intangible struggles. These issues—a "god-sized hole" in our hearts and souls—are often managed superficially with solutions that target the flesh rather than the spirit.
Through this ongoing exploration of language, I've come to understand that words are more than tools for communication—they are also instruments of perception and healing. As we become more mindful of the words we choose and the energies we nurture, perhaps we can begin to address the root causes of our "dis-eases" and move towards a state of wholeness and well-being.
In essence, understanding and consciously using language can be a form of yoga for the mind, helping us to align our thoughts with our actions and heal our deepest ailments. By embracing Pizarnik’s warning and choosing our words with care, we not only communicate more effectively but also preserve our authentic selves and inherent power.
