Patterns on the tools of language
I have realised I am starting to get more comfortable in Norwegian. So when I get tired and the Scottish dialect creeps into my supposedly English sentences, I switch not to English but to Norwegian.
It's a strange process and I hadn’t noticed it till I did it with a friend who is much more comfortable in English than Norwegian. Perhaps she is more comfortable in English than I am. For her English is a shield that she can pick up and has been trained to use to combat how the world sees her and her homeland. Or maybe English is less combative but simply this language is the large bowl that can be shared with all who come to her table. Many different bowls, different colours, patterns and primary uses have all her guests at home. But here we use her bowl as the convenient way tae carry the din of connection.
I have practised my words longer and I am more deeply familiar with the variances and uses of these bowls. Yet I find I slip into the long-coat of Norwegian before I pick up my bowl. My coat has holes in it and obvious patches that I have spent hours mending. In many ways it's all patches sewn together carefully just enough to keep me from freezing in this land. I have spent so much of the last years building, fixing, maintaining this coat and I am scared it will never be enough to keep me warm.
Scots kept me warm. I think.
Scots is my deep blue hand knit jumper my mother made, while demanding all the while I spoke proper English. It was tough and warm but has no pockets and unlike English I cannot easily share from it. Norwegian at least has pockets and is less heavy on my arms. I may not be able to share from it as well as my full bowl of English with its lines of deep blue. Yet it fits me, and I feel capable of making sure it continues to as the years whip by. In the creation of this fine coat I fear I have unwound a section of Scots. Its still warm but maybe not as comfortable as it once was. Yet I see the same colours and perhaps even patterns in the bowl that is my version of the English language. Is the blue of my bowl just on the surface can it be scratched off or does the colour go deeper? My hands are always full when I speak English.
Full of doubts, fears, feeling of lacking, fear of stumbling and having it crack and all come pouring out. Sometimes I cannot pick up the bowl at all. Cannot or will not, but here I write with it in my hands. Perhaps I just need to get better at balancing it on my hip or head.
A wool jumper, a long coat and a large bowl do appear to be things I can walk through this world with all the time. Just need to remember to use the correct one at each time and take the time to maintain them. Maintain, just like now, where I write with white paint all over my tired, dry hands.
