Naming Names

I’m not sure I’ve ever bought into the whole “made in the image of God” thing.  For one, it seems a bit insulting to the divine, given our propensity towards appalling behavior. Besides that, it’s incredibly self-centered of humans to assume that we are god-like.   Give us a God complex and suddenly we start bellowing “Dominion this!  Dominion that!” like we own the place.   It’s all a little too much Old-Testament testosterone for my tastes

But I do like the idea of naming things.  And there’s no question that naming things is a godly activity.  

Names are often the first intelligible words we utter, which suggests that we are born with a need to name.  Mama.  Dada.  Rasta (yeah, Eric’s first word was the dog’s name.  Either that, or he was declaring his religious preferences).  Name something and then, in some mystical way, that thing somehow comes into being.  Which begs the question, without the word for something, does that thing actually exist?

Philologists--folks who study words and meaning--have found some compelling evidence that names and existence are closely tied.

The Egyptians were the first culture to name the color blue.  Prior to that, there is no mention in historical texts of that color.  And, even today, in the Himba tribe in Namibia, where there is no name for ‘blue,’ its members are unable to distinguish a blue square from a collection of green ones.  Hence, there is no blue there.  But the Himba also have far more words for ‘green’ than we have, which means they can discern types of green that we can't even see.  I like knowing that there are colors of green out there that I do not even recognize because I have no name for them.

Most of us have heard about Eskimos and how they have 50 distinct words for ‘snow.’  One could argue, I suppose, that when you are trapped inside while yet another raging blizzard roars on, what else is there to do but to come up with new words for the same old, same old?  A more accurate explanation, though, is that Eskimos have a keener eye, when it comes to snow.

Perhaps the key to our godly evolutions, then, is the acquisition of additional names for something that only has one name to us.  Beetles, for instance.  And then,  we dig in, sit back, listen and observe.  Intently.  Until one day when that one name explodes into 350,000 names.  

Tiger beetle.  Stag beetle.  Rhinoceros beetle.  Ladybird, firefly, predacious, soldier.  Blister, click and weevil.  

Oh, my.  

Naming names may not make me a god, but it does leave me breathless and amazed, suddenly aware of all the stardust and magic swirling around me.  And, in the naming,  I realize that I cannot unsee this wild space, where even 350,000 names are not enough for this thing I’d once simply called “beetle.”

Ready, Aim . . . Now What?!

Last weekend, I mostly had fun trying new things.  "Mostly" because I was shooting guns and throwing hatchets and sending arrows flying errantly in a general direction, any and all of which could do real harm.  Not a typical Saturday, to be sure.  Punctuated between the fears of scalping myself and blowing up a passing bird,  I gained some confidence, though,  and had a few laughs with my pals.

It wasn't an easy outing for me.  Some friends wondered what the heck we were doing, paying to shoot guns and throw sharp things. My daughter joked that I'd be joining the NRA soon.   And I was nervous because, the last time I'd done archery, I ended up looking like I'd done heroin instead, my arm bumpy and bruised for weeks to follow.  Plus, guns.

But I was glad I was there with Kari and Jennifer and new friend Amy, who pretty much owned the air with her shotgun skills.  It was important to me to do something that--right or wrong--has been painted into a corner these days.  And, in some ways, it was a Katie Perry moment for me.

I shot a gun and I liked it.

. . . well, sort of. 

That same, middling dissonance has accompanied me this whole school year, as well.  I've loved it.  . . . kind of.  And that realization makes me pause.  I mean, how on earth couldn't I have loved this school year, if for no other reason than because of its glaring absence of cancer and death?

Turns out that, for all my talk about choosing to live in the messy middle, it's possible that it's not all wine and roses.

Duh.

What I don't know, though, is if this post-cancer, post mom's-death weirdness is common.  Or if I'm in this boat alone. Although I suspect there are many boats on this particular stretch of water.  We just don't talk about them.

What I have learned in the past year is that no one (except another post-cancer friend) is interested in hearing about the side effects of the drug that is "freaking saving your life every day!"  That's why the cancer tribe is so important to me.  Just yesterday, for instance, I spent time with a friend who'd been in similar shoes the past year and, within about 4 seconds, we'd gone straight to the grimy details, both relieved to know that we weren't alone. 

And then there's this pesky mosquito buzzing in my ear, asking what's wrong with me that I haven't embraced post-cancer life by taking up ultra marathons or kombucha or Mahayana Buddhism.

The middle can be so damned middling at times.  And immensely unpopular.  Surely this isn't news to me.  So, occasionally,  I remind myself about the importance of living in that messy space, where different lives and different experiences intersect.  Where this wild life--warts and arrows and bullets and all--pulses in such complicated and beautiful ways.  And I realize that the middle is my home, and I'm glad for it.