The Weight of Words.

So last night I put my foot in my mouth and said something I immediately regretted. It was the kind of phrase that you want to take back after each word is expelled but the drive to form a complete sentence urges you to continue and before you know it the thought is out and offers no hope of retraction.
Listen here-- I am no stranger to this feeling. I have tossed words around my whole life, like pizza dough or salad or crumpled up pages of bad poetry. I've flung some slings and arrows in my time, like anyone with a fickle tongue on the defensive and a desire to impress. I've chucked my verbal deuces up and turned peace signs into peace-out lines that really zinged (or so I hoped). And as a general rule, I've been really impressed with myself about all that. Those casual stabs and jabs got me through middle-school taunting. Survival mechanisms, baby.

But the past 9 months or so have been a toughie. Trying to reconcile my protectionist instincts with the desire for authenticity and vulnerability, I have become increasingly aware of the weight of words.

At the Seattle Science Center, there is a giant lever with a huge steel weight attached to one end and a rope on the other. When you pull the rope to the far end of the lever, away from the weight, you can lift the 2,500 lb. mass on the other end with relative ease. For little kids/me, its like having super strength for 5 seconds. Pull this rope, move a ton. Done.

Then things get a little more complicated. As you move the rope closer to the weight, it becomes increasingly difficult to gain any leverage. This is the point where kids/me start piling onto the rope like squirming rock crystals in attempt to shift the defiant mass on the other side. Pull this rope, be reminded of how much my arms resemble spaghetti al dente. Done.

I've found the same concept of leverage applies to words. When my heart is far away from relationships/people for whatever reason (be it time, injury, apathy, annoyance or as a protective measure),  I can flick around words that should be weighty as if they were dried goobers. "I love you", "I hate ____", "You're great", "You're my favorite", "You're mean", "I trust you". I've said all these things at some point, probably even today. Drat that!

Inversely, I find that the closer I get to someone, the more those words mean. The heavier they become. They can't be spoken as easily, and they are taken a lot more seriously. I couldn't even tell my parents that I love them until late in my teen years, yet I could readily profess a love for Spike by season 2 of Buffy.

The harsh truth is that precious few of us are prepared to take on the responsibility of stewarding our words. We yearn for closeness and a tangible sense of reality, but not if there is the possibility of getting hurt in the process. We love our security, and we love our pride. No one wants to pull the rope and look like weak sauce in the middle of the Science Center. Its downright embarrassing.

Yet I've learned from personal experience that after a time, hanging around the fringes of vulnerability to preserve the upper hand stops being impressive and starts being strangely isolating. It didn't take long for the 5 year olds ooing and ahhing my superwoman antics to get bored and move onto other exhibits. Especially when they realized they could do the same thing.

But I digress. Something always has to give. Last night, I made a snarky comment towards a close friend that carried more weight than I wanted to take responsibility for. I pulled the lever from the outer edges and those words shifted without effort and without thought and without impressing anyone, really. Including me.

"With the right leverage and the proper application of strength, the door will come free." So true, Will Turner. But it's up to us how we use that leverage--that strength. Because there are some doors we don't want to open, and there are doors that we do want to open but are too afraid to because they represent vulnerability in a relationship, and some doors that should stay closed, and not all doors are holding Jack Sparrow captive, and criminy I am horrible at extended metaphors.

Regardless, taking responsibility for the weight of your words requires a strong element of humility. Sometimes it means saying, "Yes, I do have noodles for arms. Will you help me carry this?" I am fortunate enough to have a few wonderful individuals that are willing to share the weight. Every once in a while (sic last night) I slip up and get a little too cocky, but like so many unimpressed 5 year olds, my antics are quickly called out. Thank you.

So here I am learning the weight of words. It isn't glamorous and it isn't easy and I still put far too much stock in my defense mechanisms, but in learning weight, I am learning how to hold what is real. I am learning self-respect and other-respect and what it means to be truly vulnerable. And within this vulnerability, I am learning what it means to love and be loved.

Tiring? Yes.

But a shared tired. And so incredibly worth it.