The Peak of Inspiration

There are over 7,000 known languages in the world.  There are untold number of accents that each language is spoken with.  Add to that pronunciation, vocabulary, tone of voice, and all the many other factors that make one voice distinguishable from another. Each person has a different way of verbalizing their thoughts.

We all travel a little different path through life.  Along the way we pick up words, accents, sometimes even different languages.  Our heart, the thing inside of us that feels, starts to communicate in a way that is unique to us.  Everything I say, the things I laugh about, the things I cry about, are all influenced by what I have seen, and the view from where I am.  7 billion people on the planet. 7 billion unique lives.  7 billion hearts, every one speaking in a little different way.

This world is full of misunderstandings.  Anyone who is old enough to know what the curse is has probably recognized this.  Homes are broken, relationships are strained, and partnerships are terminated because something, somewhere, was lost in translation.  There is a barrier, a Berlin Wall, something that stands between us, that keeps us from looking each other in the eye and knowing, without a doubt, what the other one is saying.

I’ve spoken to people, or rather my heart has, that I know understand me.  I know this because they’ve been to the places, seen and felt the things that I have.  They use words that I am familiar with.  When they nod their heads and say “I understand”, I believe them.  Most of the times, when I am this kind of person, we don’t really need to talk.  We just… know.  It is a blessing to be understood, if only for a moment.

I’ve been in many situations, as I’m sure you have, when I am absolutely certain that I am not understood.  I may try to speak clearly, raise my voice a little, use a few hand motions to try to make my point clear.  But in the end, there is no light of understanding in the eyes before me.  In these circumstances, our heart’s reflexes tell us to give up and walk away.  That there is no hope for us, and we are alone on our side of the wall. 

And many times, I am the one that doesn’t understand.  Oh sure, I nod my head and smile at what I think are the right times.  I try to read the lips and between the lines.  I think about what was said and analyze why they said it.  I replay the conversation in my mind until I come up with a satisfactory translation, something that fits my agenda. 

These aren’t new problems.  They’re as old as mankind.  Somehow, we must find a way to understand each other.  Husband and wife, child and parent, Vietnam vet and college student, all need to be able to communicate.  The day laborer who sits in the pew beside the millionaire, the weak beside the strong, the worthy and the unworthy, all interacting with each other, living alongside and with one another. 

We are not without hope.  We have been given a key.  A Rosetta Stone.  A translator that will help you decipher the hieroglyphs that my heart scratches on the caves of my grief and frustration.  That can interpret the notes on your lips and show my heart the meaning.  Something that cuts through the accents that we acquire and reads the written language coming from our soul.  A process that takes all the adjectives, long words, and fancy names, and reduces them into simple, single syllables that a child can pronounce. 

The element, this thing that we must have if we are to be able to listen to, and help, each other, is easier to describe than it is to name.  It says, “I care about you” and “I want the best for you”.  Its mission statement reads “I will put your good ahead of my own, your success is more important than mine.  When you hurt, I will cry, and when you rejoice, I will rejoice with you.”.  I suppose, if it were to have a name, it would be Love.  In its purest form, everyone understands it.  It’s a universal language, but one that doesn’t use a lot of words.  When a heart hugs you, it’s felt, not heard.  An arm around the shoulder, a gift of sympathy or appreciation, a song sent from a caring soul to a needy one, these things are hard to misunderstand.

You can spend a lifetime searching for that one person that speaks your language, with your accent, that has traveled a path that parallels your own.  You can let the need to be understood trump the need to be loved.  Bypass the multitude of people waiting to help mend you and share your load, thinking they can’t help because they don’t understand.  And you might be right, they probably don’t. 

Or you can accept this gift, this Rosetta Stone called love.  Recognize the fact that others do not, and probably never will, understand you, and come to peace with that truth.  Know that being loved is so much better than being understood.  It’s a country with no barriers.  Find your place there.