This morning over breakfast, I was thinking about the concept of recognition. What are we really saying when we say we recognize something? When two people fall in love, is that recognition? When we know a place to be home, whether our feet have ever touched the soil or not, is that recognition?
I can’t explain to you why I love who I love. I can’t rationalize it. I can’t tell you why I dream of Ireland with an almost obsessive zeal, why I know I’ve been there before (even though I haven’t) and that I’ll one day return. There are no words for these things. I just know them.
I’m a storyteller. I’m a bullshitter. I write long letters and short poems and believe in the power of words almost above all else. So why have I been thinking so much lately about how much I want and need words to fail?
Maybe that’s the truest recognition of all. That we are more than words, that we are more than like and dislike, that we are body and energy and landscape, and that we are at our best when we recognize those truths in others, and circle the wagons accordingly, to leave things better than we found them.
Maybe I’m batshit crazy. Or maybe I’m just recognizing something in myself.