Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
— (Forgotten Language, Shel Silverstein)
"Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well." (Psalm 139:14)
I've been trying to find a word for the year. Alece over at Grit and Glory started this... this "one word." This beautiful challenge.
Usually I leave the goal-setting and word-claiming to the strong ones. You know — the ones who actually have a chance at finishing the year with the same gusto and confidence. I shy away from resolutions, because I know my resolve is weak. I have no grand scheme to map out the year; just a plan for today.
But this. This "one word". This made me stir a little in my seat, bounce my pen against the table and look for the closest scrap of paper to start doodling.
So I've picked it.
Not all that shocking, I know. Not all that earth-moving, I know.
This year holds a lot of unknowns. A lot of penciled in to-do lists.
Lots of driving, flights, questions, meetings.
365 days. 365 nights.
But I want the wonder to come back. Whether it's in the middle of a dirt field in Uganda, under a starry sky or somewhere in the tumble of my washing machine, I need wonder to return.
I want to ask more questions and talk less.
I want to hear more mysteries and marvel at them.
I want to see the sparks inside of someone else and let them feel wonderful; disappear in the shadow of their light.
I want to stand under big skies. Starry skies.
Hold little hands. Little hearts.
I want to let time stand still if it needs to.
Get giddy over things that are otherwise ignored.
Let it turn into worship, even.
And maybe find that forgotten language again.