An Unusual Perspective on Syllables
Illustration by Witchy
I wonder about weird things sometimes. Or so I’ve been told anyway. Usually by husbands. Mine, that is. I know. There’s a fair good selection of them back there in the past. And they pretty much all said the same thing. “You think about weird things.”
It always followed my asking something that started with, “Did you ever wonder…” and the answer (usually accompanied by a worrying “hm, maybe she’s finally slipped off her pulley” look) was invariably, “Uh…nnnoooo!?!”
And that’s when there’d be the “You think about weird things” comment next. See? I can rattle off that sequence just like the best waitress in a truck stop diner can rattle off the “Daily Specials” menu. (Now why didn’t I go to a fancy, high class restaurant? I don’t know. My brain went to a truck stop diner. Oh! Hang on. While I’m here, I’m gonna stop for a slice of pie. 🥧 With ice cream 🍨. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
(Elevator-style intermission music…🎼🎹🎶)
Okay, I’m back. Mmmmm. That was so good. Strawberry and rhubarb. My fave. Now, where was I?
Oh, yeah. I want to tell you about one of my wonderings. And I wonder if it’s ever been one of your wonderings, too. ’Cause you can share wonderings, you know.
I’ve wondered for a very long time what it would be like if at birth, you were allotted a certain number of syllables to use throughout your life. Not just “you” in particular. I mean the general “you.” All of us. Everyone. And when you reached the last one, that’s it, no more syllables can come out of your mouth. Or out of your fingertips via pen or typewriter or computer or in any other fashion. You’re done. Hasta la vista, Syllables!
So you’re only allowed a certain number of syllables, and it varies from one person to the next because it was calculated in some bizarre way that only the universe understands and you’ll never know when you’re going to run out. And you can’t borrow any from anyone else, like, you know those quiet people who use their syllables sparingly. They might have a whole enormous stash of them but they’re not allowed to share.
What if one day, when you were in the middle of saying something, you ran out and that’s it? No more syllables. Your throat seizes up, no sound comes out. You try to write something and nope. Your hand(s) won’t work. No. More. Syllables. Full stop! They don’t care if you were mid-sentence. They don’t care if you were halfway through writing the last chapter of the greatest novel that would ever be written.
They don’t care if you were on one knee and reaching into your pocket for a little ring box while you said, “Martha Jo, I know you’ve waited 17 years for me to say these words, and it’s finally time! Will you — ” 😳🤐😖
Uh-oh. No more syllables.
They don’t care if you were about to deliver a speech on the newest microsurgery techniques to a huge gathering of the world’s top neurosurgeons (who might wonder if your brain has seized up when you suddenly choke and can’t speak anymore, so don’t be surprised if they run up on the stage and try to fix you).
Nope, your syllables don’t give a rat’s @$$ if you had more Things You Wanted To Say. You used up the last one. The cupboard is bare, my friend. Not one more syllable in the fridge, in the pantry, not even a teeny little “a” — a whole magical word all by itself — in sight.
No. Not even hiding in the night table drawer with the cookie crumbs.
You see, the older I get, the more I’m reflecting on years past. I see so many places when my behaviour was appalling. Yeah, I understand now where it came from. (Please excuse my ending a sentence in a preposition. Ugh. Should I have said, “I understand now whence it came”? Or “…from where it had come?” Okay, I could have reworked the whole dang sentence and said, “I know what caused it.” There we go. No nasty little preposition hanging off the window ledge and screaming like a terrified toddler who lost his mama in a supermarket.)
There were times I put together collections of syllables in hurtful ways. Other times I used them in selfish ways. And there were times I thought I was so cool, showing off, trying to impress with my particular choices of syllables. I had no idea it was my deeply wounded ego trying to compensate for feeling worthless and as ugly on the inside as a person can be, because of the childhood insults I received so frequently from my mother.
I see a trail of misspent, wasted, poorly used syllables littering the path behind me. It doesn’t matter that I understand how that happened. And I wish I could take all of them back, recycle them, put them together in much lovelier combinations that would undo the hurt I’ve caused others, and the embarrassment I caused myself.
I can’t gather up all of those wasted syllables and do something better with them. But what I can do is be ever more mindful of how I spend the ones I have left. I can take more care with the ones I choose to use, and in which order, and how many, and with whom they are shared.
I’ve also been reflecting more on the syllables I should have used and didn’t. The ones I wanted to use and couldn’t. I am endeavouring to use more of the ones that hid in a back corner of the attic. They’re sneaky, those guys, cowering up there under a dusty old table that’s covered with even dustier boxes so no one will find them. Or rather, so I won’t.
They are at least as important as the ones I shouldn’t have used. I’ve got a whole bunch of them that need careful application but it’s a “dragging them out kicking and screaming” sort of affair at the moment. Even when I bribed them with pie. Apparently, they don’t much care for pie.
Much of the time, I’d actually prefer to hear or read more syllables than I spend. Or to enjoy complete silence. An absence of any syllables except the ones the birds share (especially crows and magpies; I love them the most), or the rustling of the leaves in the huge trees just outside my windows. Or the ones offered by my home with its quiet creaks and hums.
These are the syllables that feed my soul at times when the others need to rest, and so do I. Right now, that’s quite a lot of the time.
And the more I enjoy those syllables, the less I feel a need to use the other ones.
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