It is not the giving that empties the purse
It’s not giving that empties the purse, nor loving, the heart.
Of all my grandmother’s sayings, this was the one I really couldn’t comprehend. My child’s literal mind understood the obvious fact that giving coins out of my small pink and white purse without apparent means of replenishing them would inevitably empty it. And the second half of the maxim was entirely lost without visible punctuation.
To my young ears “loving the heart” hung unsatisfyingly in mid air, dangling about like a money-spider caught unawares, flailing for something solid to make sense of the cadence.
I couldn’t even ask her to explain.
She passed away more than a decade before I was born so this, along with her other aphorisms, was handed on to me via my mother. This shadow-grandparent, her beautiful face crystallised forever in a wartime photograph and looking far too young to be sensibly referred to as “Granny”, was present to me most vividly in the words that held her values. As I grew into adulthood, my other much-loved grandparents faded into sweet memories and the distance that now separated me from them brought her into sharper focus. This new perspective gave them parity in my history. Only then did I appreciate the truths of what she had handed on to her children, and without her ever knowing it would be so, future generations.
Words matter.
They bind us in love. They separate us in anger. They soothe with patient compassion and yet destroy in a moment. They document our human past and plot our uncertain future. Words hold secrets, our moments of joy, empathy in the face of grief. They are the frameworks of faith, law and education. They flesh out music into songs.
Words bookend our small lives: Announcement … Epitaph.
If the ability to reason is what elevates us to a position of dominance over other species, then surely language, our words, are the wings that give reason flight and allow it passage throughout time.
Perhaps because words have no discernible cost, we sometimes spend them without thinking. The careless remark that silently slides deeper than a knife could ever reach. The assassination of a good name. Or we hold back on words when they are most needed. The lack of affirmation starving a soul crying out to be seen. Tender words needed to bind up broken hearts.
Warm words to encourage others …
Ours has become a supremely visual culture. Rarely now do we paint word-pictures or craft letters. Communication to-go is pared down to cheap convenience consumed on the run, not a feast to prepare for — and savour with — others. If a thought cannot be reduced to a sound-bite, is it even valid now? #BeKind is a more affordable currency in a world that will not stop, than the sacrificial value of actually being present, being an ally. Being real.
The very paraphernalia of writing has become quaint. Words no longer carry the texture and smell of paper and ink. Type does not allow us to discern the emotions of the author scattered across a page in the identity of their handwriting. With the immediacy of the digital word, we have lost the patience to wait for our daily bread.
But even in a throwaway culture words still matter, perhaps more than ever, in the clatter and chatter of an overcrowded, ever-scrolling stream.
Where we find meaningful communication burning out, we can still nurture the embers and carry them to a safe place ready to be shared where their light and warmth is needed. This act of giving — our selves, our hearts — does not empty anything. Division can only diminish inanimate things; living things multiply when they divide. We can afford to be generous with our words, we can afford to spend them lavishly to encourage and amplify others, to build them up and still have an abundance to spare. We can afford to speak our truth.
