All My Language

shot on film, sometime in 2023.

I decided to change my publication name. As a writer, I often stress over finding the perfect title first — sometimes even hanging up the words that are heavy on my tongue, waiting to be let loose, all in quest for the perfect beginning. And then, after I get to pouring out my language, I realize the title doesn’t fit or fully capture the essence or weight of my words. So, in going with what feels right, consider this an informal re-introduction of sorts. This feels more fitting, less restricting for all the words that have made a home in this soul of mine.

In thinking of All My Language, and why the specific name came to me, I was reminded of a portion of words from Toni Morrison’s Nobel Lecture in 1993. In part, she thoughtfully states:

But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.

Helen Marcus/Contact Press Images

We do language. How complex of a statement? How profound of a consideration, to assess the way in which we fix our mouths. A probing, if not to be examined — deeply, intensely, with our all. Reading those words got me thinking. How do I do language? Where does my language take me? How does it shape me, and others whose ears it falls upon? Where do I go when the language around me hurts? How do I lean into language, into vulnerability, into the truth of my tongue?

Language is a choice, a daily practice. I believe more and more these days, I’m learning how to do it in a way that serves purpose. To heal, to uplift, to reconcile. I’m learning to free my voice. To not allow it to be stifled or muffled or muted. To speak up for what is right and against what is wrong. To speak from the heart — even when it hurts, even when it is heavy. I am learning to give all my language. It is my offering for hope, compassion, and warmth. It is my way of fostering soft spaces that meet others with tenderness and the possibility for a “deep and lively love,” in the words of Cleo Wade.

My language is my intentional place. Life is lived and breathed through my words. I give and I receive through my words. Through language, I peel back the layers surrounding depth, surrounding wounds, surrounding survival.

Some days I feel like these bones carry many languages. I have my native tongue, but I also have all the things I’ve ever learned from the tongues of others. There is more and more to my language each day. But one thing about it remains steady — it always strives to be pure and just and true. Because it is the one thing that comes from the depths of me, as it does for everyone.

Language is an ecosystem. An environment that either connects us or creates discord. An abode that either breeds hate or nurtures love. We are often at the mercy of language — either another’s or our own. Our behavior and the way we live life is contingent upon the language we speak and the language we keep.

Language can either be a sitemap for ache or for ease. It can either be the framework for generational bondage or for ancestral healing. It can be where the light enters or where it leaves us.

I do not believe that language can be indifferent. There is always motive within it, a root, an underlying factor, a foundation on which it stands. And almost certainly is there language that exists between words, hanging around outside the margin lines. It is always there if you look intuitively and listen clearly.

I am a vessel for all the language inside of me. It is my responsibility to be intentional with it. To tend to the grounds on which it takes root, the soils of my soul. To be mindful of the fruit it produces. To lean towards love, always.

Thoughts about how we do language is something for us all to consider, especially when dissonance is abound. Here are some questions to reflect on:

How do you do language? Do you communicate with kindness, with grace, with understanding? Does your language stir up hate? Sour the land? Does it flow in rivers of love, brimmed with compassion?

Where do you find language? Do you pull it out of the ripeness of grief? Do you configure it from the cosmos? Is it heavy in the aftermath of disappointment? Is it stretched across your mother’s lap on a quiet Sunday afternoon?

How do you practice language? Is it dancing on your tongue? Is it dragging its feet? Is it a flame through clenched teeth, burning your mouth from the inside out?

Where do you carry your language? In your heart? In your ego? In low places? Where heaven resides?

Why do you do language? For love? For hate? For connection? For control? For freedom?

In ending, I will leave you with this thought. There are mountaintops that cannot be reached, valleys that cannot be explored, life that cannot be lived without language. It is our entire experience. Language, whether silenced or undone, whether shrouded or denied, is proof that meaning existed. We are in the clutches of deep, diverse, opportune language each and every day. It is our instrument. Can we fathom the possibility for service, or disservice, that lies in the power of our own tongue?