In the economy of words, economy of words is not always an asset. It’s good to be concise and clear when you do speak or write, but whether you speak is freighted with meaning—particularly in seasons when the world shifts, when everyone is expected to have their say with swift boldness.
But sometimes the words don’t come. Sometimes they shouldn’t. Sometimes, they’re trapped under uncertainty, fear, and swirling overwhelm, not ready to see the light. Sometimes they sit until their measured tone is all but guaranteed to be ignored. The cash value is all in speed and stridency.
I suppose what I mean to ask is where wisdom fits in such a verbal system?
The other day, I posted on Threads about learning how to come down from an 8-year Twitter bender:
“I'm getting used to sitting with (digital) silence here. Back on the other app, I sent over 8500 tweets in the 8 years I was active there, always commenting on anything I was interested in, tagging people, sparking discussion, etc. Since that's all been so diminished, I'm learning what it means to engage again with word-based social media, and I know it'll be different. I won't (can't) have something to say about everything; it was an illusion to think that I ever did.”
Of course I still write and speak for work and church and my MDiv program, but in clear lanes with clear objectives that, for better or for worse, are designed to minimize the effect of my own voice on the content. And I have a lot of thoughts about life and theology and church and politics and art and more, but these days the words come slower and they come out more and more through the lens of poetry or brief reflections. I’m more guarded in where and how I use my full voice, less from fear than contentment with silence over sloppiness.
Some of this is mid-life circumspection. I’ve been dabbling in this writing life long enough to find pieces from 5 or 10 or 20 years ago and grieve the overconfidence of youth. I want my words to last, like the well-tended fire in a stove that can heat the house all night instead of the quick, weak blaze of dry leaves. I’m always re-learning to keep the oven door closed.
Some of it is disposition. I’m trained as a journalist. The urge to write fast and hot—to cobble together inverted pyramids, to make sure the facts are straight and not worry about who they offend, to hit the deadline and win the cycle—runs deep in me. As a journalist, I’m also a generalist. I can have a conversation with anyone about any topic and dabble in any field of expertise. This makes knowing my lane and resting in expertise harder than it may be for most, not least because I can sound like I know what I’m talking about before I actually do.
Some of this is exhaustion. I’m busy. I’m tired. My words are reserved for those in genuine proximity. To family, to friends, to coworkers, for assignments. I’ve learned to text what I used to Tweet, with people who know me well enough to genuinely care what I think and who know they can push back when I’m wrong.
At their best, these brakes on my verbal output result in poetry or well-thought through pieces I pitch for publication. Sometimes, it channels creativity into other veins (photography, painting, cooking, etc.). Other times, it’s merely silence. All these outcomes are fine by me.
While I may not be commenting on everything going on in the world, I am feeling things deeply. I’m reading the news, absorbing the grief and wonder, and waiting for it to be transformed. No one needs to hear what I think, but they may need my love, attention, and advocacy. But these can come better from a processor than a pundit, from a place of contemplation rather than unearned certainty.