The Yell Jar

On their own, words lie. Singularly, actions betray them. Tone adds nuance. Inflection adds poetry and song. The body has its own language full or idiosyncrasies, acronyms, jargon. Eyes plead when our words command. Fingers dance as the lips whisper. A racing heart held captive by silence. The rhythm and comfort of routine lull one into incomplete sentences, thoughts trapped inside themselves, words never spoken or only whispered in half beats. It is not that language is inadequate. It is that humans are poor operators of language. We grow lazy in its day to day use. We do not think about what we are really saying in the context of history, audience, relationship, or the geography of land, heart, spirit or mind. We do not teach our young to be intentional with words. We do not teach our young to be intentional.

My mother yells at me. I feel the force of her anger and pain. She has called me names, told me I am selfish, angry and attacking. I feel small under the force of it. I am left questioning my character. Am I a bad person?

A mother can mold the inner life of a child through words. A mother can ride at the helm of language, throwing words into the air, punctuating them with fists or hugs, a caress or rough pat and a child will absorb the layered meaning of every word, every gesture. Words are the last umbilical cord connecting child and mother. A mother gives and a child drinks them for nourishment even if they are poison. If those words are lies or imprecise, they will damage the child's interior. A mother needs to be intentional to avoid this. It is hardly human nature to be so. It is a daily failure.

My confession: I betray my own intentions. I am my own obstacle to an authentic life. One of my largest fears is that I will become the immutable obstacle to an authentic relationship with my children. I see how I fail language in my interactions with them and I grow frustrated with my imperfection. I grow fearful. I yell at Dana.

I feel guilty. I apologize. I walk away. I struggle. I punish myself. Then I yell again. I remember how my mother yelled. I hurt. I defend myself. I feel guilty. I try to talk to Dana but her world is only 31/2 years old and full of emotions, colors, stories, shapes, animals, actions, possibilities. Not full of limitations. She does not yet know that I am imperfect.

Now we have a Yell Jar. Every time, I yell at Dana I put a jelly bean in the jar. She will get to eat them when we reach ten. I tell Dana I would like not to yell at her but I'm still learning how. I do not want to hurt her feelings with imperfect words accentuated by angry emotions. The Yell Jar will help me. I hope it will help her understand, if not now, then in her memories of me and the Yell Jar when she is older. Maybe it will help her see that it is ok to struggle with ones intentions as long as one stays true to the journey towards them.

And maybe someday I will learn the proper use of language.