On the Word That Would Not Open
There is a room in me where language never learned to walk. I used to think the door was locked, but now I see it was only held shut by the weight of words I carried, all the forgive me’s and I should haves pressed together like stones in a satchel.

I believed each word was a key. But every time I reached for one, it turned to dust in my hand. So I sat in the doorway of my own silence, too weary to speak, too afraid not to.

One day, while tracing the grooves of an old wound, I whispered the word “forgiveness” the way you whisper the name of someone who left years ago. The word echoed back to me, thin, obedient, harmless. Nothing in it moved.

It was then I understood: The word had become a wall. And I had been kneeling before it, thinking it was a gate. I felt a loneliness then, not the ache of being unseen, but the ache of seeing at last that I had mistaken the symbol for the thing itself.

So I placed the word on the ground, gently, like setting down a cup I no longer needed. It did not break. It simply stopped trying to hold what it could not hold. The silence that followed was not empty. It was spacious, like a lung discovering its first breath. In that space, something shifted, a soft loosening in the center of my being. As if the truth, long patient, had been waiting for me to stop talking.

I realized then that forgiveness is not a word you say, but a room you return to. A room where nothing must be named, and nothing is held against you. Not even the years you spent trying to open a door that was never meant to be opened with language.
I stepped inside. And the moment I did, the loneliness slipped from my shoulders like a garment I no longer needed to wear. In the quiet, I finally felt found.

Prison House of Language

The walls are built of vowels and iron nouns,
A mortar mixed from should and must and when.
I pace the cell while all the world renowns
Arrive as echoes scratching from my pen.

I feel a grief without a face
A tidal ache that never finds
Yet lonely is the closest word,
A hollow key that fits no door.

I hunger for a truth too soft for speech,
A pulse beneath the grammar of the mind;
But since my youth, I’ve bartered what I reach
For definitions where the lies are signed.

The “I” I speak is not the “I” I know,
Just syntax haunting bones it cannot feel;
And what we call a “wound” can never show
The raw, unworded space that waits to heal.

We cease to think the moment we agree
To walk the narrow halls the lexicons command.
To stay within the lines is to be “free”
Yet here I am, exiled in my native land.

So let the “hurt,” and “forgive” fall past;
Let the unfinished sentence hang in open air.
For only when the final word has breathed its last
Will I be found in the silence waiting there.

Hi Alessa -a wonderful lead into to similar thoughts I had – (I’ve been pondering this subject for a few weeks)

“In the beginning was the Word.” I have always imagined that Word not as language, but as a living movement… creative, spacious, and uncontained.

Into this Word, Adam appears and I imagine him running through the garden with the delighted curiosity of a child, touching creatures gently, laughing as names rise in him like small miracles. “Father,” he says, breathless, “I called this one hare. Do you like it?” And I imagine God smiling, not because it is correct but because it is alive. In that moment, naming is participation, a joining in the unfolding music of creation. Nothing is fragile. Nothing is broken, Nothing is judged. Even “wrong” names shine with an unguarded radiance.

But there is another version that lives just as vividly. In this one, Adam returns from that same joyful day only to meet a God whose face has hardened. “No,” the voice says. “You named it wrong; are you trying to brake everything…

Suddenly, the garden tightens. The air thins. The freedom of naming collapses into anxiety, and the Word that once created begins to contain. Naming becomes a duty weighted with the fear of error. This is a different kind of fall, a quiet exile that happens not by leaving Eden, but by losing the relationship to the Word that made Eden open.

Yet the story doesn’t end in exile. I imagine Adam years later, walking the garden with careful steps, still convinced that a misplaced syllable might fracture the world. He kneels beside a trembling creature, and something soft and familiar stirs, the primal urge to greet, to name, to share delight.

For a moment, he braces for the reprimand, for the familiar tightness of judgment. But the garden is quiet. And then, like a memory carried on a breath, he hears it: the warm, untroubled laughter of the first God. The One who delighted in every name, even the awkward ones.

Something loosens. He remembers naming as play; he remembers God as companion; he remembers that nothing was ever fragile. Adam touches the creature and lets the name rise the way it once did, freely, gently, without the fear of breaking creation. And as the name leaves his lips, the world does not shatter.

It inhales. It breathes.

———-

“In the beginning, the Word created; after the fall, words contained; and when remembered, the Word is too alive to speak.”

Sufi wisdom suggests that our deepest suffering is not a lack of doctrine, but forgetfulness, a loss of the original resonance beneath the sound. We have forgotten the intimacy behind the naming.

The path, then, is Remembrance: a return not to a concept, but to a vibration of Being. It is a state of such profound life that to speak it is to diminish it… We do not find the Truth by defining it; we find it by becoming the silence in which it breathes.

And so sometimes the wound is not the past, but the word we’ve been using to approach it. And sometimes healing begins not with speaking, but with remembering the silence beneath the speech.