Lost In Translation

"A perfect mortification is to avoid speaking without having to, for that is a great fault in a Christian soul. We must fear, we must avoid useless conversations because of the sins we commit in them and the time we waste in them."

St. Teresa of Avila

I currently got hooked on a bit of synth-pop via Mr. Kitty's "After Dark" dubbed over splices of the 2003 film Lost in Translation. Though this musical genre is new to me, it's been an ethereal meditation personally, syncing with my own feelings of loneliness, disconnect, and isolation as of late. The film itself (which I saw years ago) is an artfully done "romantic melancholy" working within the confines of emotional (rather than sexual) intimacy between two American strangers in Tokyo--poignant scraps of connection in a modern day world of disconnection. 

A look, a gesture, a touch--all sans words in the music video--are akin to the economics of words within poetry, all while eliciting a cogent sense of presence and longing, the lingering taste of the hangover of loneliness. In the words of Ezra Pound, "use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation." 

I started writing thirty years ago inspired by the poetry of the 17th century Japanese haiku masters--Buson, Basho, Issa. Haiku is the poetry of the real, as the saying goes. Within the confines of a 3 line, 5-7-5 sylable structure, the poet has no words to waste. But because the essence of haiku is experiential, the words themselves must become wordless--the pure translation of experience. Time, too, is transcended in a moment of presence. Take for instance this haiku of Yosa Buson (1716-84), which has stayed with me to this day from when I read it decades ago:

Pressing sushi;

After a while,

A lonely feeling

In the context of the Faith, we can experience this transcendence in the reception of the Eucharist, the direct, subjective, poetic experience of the Divine, within the established and objective 5-7-5 rubrics of the Mass. We are transported from our present state to Calvary, to the Upper Room, to the bosom of the Lord with St. John...that is, when we are paying attention and enter into the reality we consume--when we become what we eat.

This wordless communion, and the silence therein, has led me to reflect on this neglected bit of scripture, the words of our Lord, 

"But I say unto you, that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall render an account for it in the day of judgment" (Mt 12:36).

Every idle word. Were I to take a true, honest inventory of the words I expel daily so carelessly...well, it is an indictment. The more I reflect on it, the more I want to sanctify not just my thoughts and actions, but the words which I speak. They should be korban, "something which draws close," not fodder for conversation, caloric filler to take up space in the atmosphere, or random texts sent to distract me from my present state of being. More often then not, our words are spoken in order to choke the silence rather than sanctify the air.

It is very difficult to intentionally starve our environment of words so that we mindfully use only what is necessary to convey a point, a direction, a salutation, an experience. But I'm going to make it a New Years resolution of sorts to try.

Not speaking at all (a "vow of silence") is not especially practical, but I do think I could cut the amount of words I speak and texts I send in a day by 75% and still function and communicate effectively. In our daily life, we deflate our currency with the frivolity of our barrage of ill-conceived words the way the Fed prints money. It's going to take some thoughtfulness, and pausing to think first. It may involve some discomforting periods of letting verbal fields lay fallow. Like the haiku artist, each word must serve a function--to be charitable, intentional, meaningful, and fruitful. 

But I'd like to undertake this challenge--to re-frame my loneliness as a power rather than a weakness, imbibing meaning in each word spoken rather than diffusing it through frivolous manners of simply talking for its own sake. To listen first, and speak second. To say only what needs to be said, text only what needs to be texted, and nothing more. To respect the role of meditation in daily life, painting with minimal strokes on the canvas of silence. To respect the Lord who oppressed and afflicted "opened not his mouth" (Is 53:7). To be mindful of my judgment. "Keep silence," writes St. Paul of the Cross, "like a golden cross destined to preserve the treasure of the other virtues. Whoever keeps his tongue, keeps his soul." 

I don't want my words to be used against me in the heavenly court. "For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned" (Mt 12:37). I cannot take back the torrent of trifles that have spilled from my mouth over the decades, rendering judgment, causing scandal, breaking down rather than building up, decaying the enamel of how many souls, polluting my environment with excess of language. But I can repent and turn off the faucet starting today to be judicious, thoughtful, sober, tempered with regards to my words. No one is owed any of them.