Saying What We Mean…or Meaning What We Say?

Why I care about phrasing

I am sure the birds were chirping this morning. They must have been.

Still, on the other side of the wall, I sprung out of bed ready to kill someone. Specifically, the workers violently plucking old tiles from my roof at 7:30 AM.

I shoved my sheets off my limp body, dragged my feet to the bathroom, and washed my face. Then, while brushing my hair, something magical happened: I quickly became lost in thought. Disjointed ideas muddled my groggy mind. My annoyance disappeared.

I broke my aimless stare to welcome my first conscious thought of the day: there are two types of people in this world. I’ve always called myself a morning person because it’s when my mind is clearest. So, I reasoned that there were too few thoughts floating around to drown out construction this early (and this loud).

You see, I’ve been a morning person for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, it was to watch television on the weekends the moment the sun came up (strictly forbidden throughout the week, of course). In high school, it was about balancing sports and academics-- post-school and -practice exhaustion made mornings the only time I could study. These days, I can hardly keep my eyes open past 10 PM.

Well, unless my mom and I are watching Sex And The City. Or maybe my roommate and I are lost in conversation about our own existence (indulgent, I know). Well… I suppose I also make exceptions when enthralled in a book, out with friends, or finishing an assignment I left for the last minute. The list goes on… Maybe I’m not such a morning person after all.

Now introducing my second thought this morning: sometimes the labels we use to describe ourselves, let alone others, are much too absolute. Perhaps I’m not a “morning person,” but rather one who bravely lets herself sleep in on the weekends. Maybe my brother isn’t “quiet,” but instead particular about who he shares with. It could be that we aren’t “failures,” but rather supportive of our best efforts. I know that I’m not “perfect,” “shy,” or any of the other labels I’ve been assigned throughout my life. I am simply my sometimes-this-but-under-certain-conditions-that self.

Our phrasing often neglects a multifaceted, dynamic, and complex reality. Life is poorly described in extremes. My point: language matters.

It is a worthwhile challenge to be more intentional about our words in conversation with both others and ourselves-- not for the sake of political correctness, but to acknowledge our completeness. At the end of the day, don’t we all want to be seen for who we fully, deeply are?

(The pretty moon, and the even prettier mid-construction roof)