I am privileged enough to feel as if I have a message. As if somewhere within me, like the great revolutionaries of the world, is a single, patiently awaiting speech. My life then, is the formulation of this message, this great thing I was meant to share with whoever will listen and many who wont. Yet I cannot speak.
This English language, for all its adjectives, similies, and idioms, has yet to be mastered by me. I read and especially on this trip, I observe, but translating a whirlwind of feelings or impact of an experience into sentences might as well be translating Greek to Korean. I have only ever needed to express by comparison, but this journey to “broaden my horizons” requires a different alphabet.
Even if the words came easily, beautifully structured, thoughtfully explained, and idiosyncratically mine, I would not know how to pronounce them. I would not know which words to stress or which pauses to savor. Great speaking to me, has a constant meter. Some command with the furious beat of an African drum, some inspire with the playful tones of a steel drum, some soothe with the warm echoes of a bongo.
As stifled as I feel, I realize there is a greater, possibly stronger outlet.
I can do.
I can imitate the actions I want to spread. I can ask the questions to problems I want to understand. I can consciously attempt to be more welcoming or exemplary.
Mahatma Ghandi, though he found the treasure of eloquence, expressed him self the same way. Thoughts can be powerful, and words could be the bridge between my thoughts and my world, but until, and even after this bridge is completed, “my life is my message”.