Molasses

Once upon a time I knew a woman from Poland, the mother of our babysitter, who struggled with English. She told us that to her ears the language of Shakespeare and Byron sounded like water boiling in a pot on the stove. She had never heard anything quite like it. As a native speaker, I had no idea what she was talking about, so I tried an experiment.

I turned down the radio in the living room of our house and listened to it from the kitchen. I couldn’t make out individual words, but after a while—removed from all grammar and meaning, as if hearing a new language—I began to pick up hissing sibilants, popping plosives, and a roiling rhythm of irregular stress. Sure enough, the Polish woman was right: what I was hearing sounded like a pot of boiling water.

In the years since then, my radio experiment has taken on unexpected meaning. Whether because of the passing of time, personal experience, or a changing disposition, I find myself sitting in the kitchen while the rest of the world has snuggled into the living room. Not only are they in the living room, but they are listening intently to the radio, which has morphed into a frightful technology with unlimited reach. It is faster than ever before. And therein lies the rub: I am still listening from the kitchen, slow as molasses, while the living room explodes in a rapid boil.

When I say I am in the kitchen, I mean I am having a harder time understanding the words coming from the radio in the living room. That goes for both the technical dimension—the “boiling” of the language—and the meaning within that boiling. Actually, I don’t think the two can be separated, to borrow Marshall McLuhan’s insight that the medium and the message are inseparable.

But I am focused right now on the sound of English, especially as it tries to keep pace with technology. To wit, people are speaking so fast that they have to gasp to catch their breath. You see this on social media quite a bit, where reporters and pundits gulp air in between sound bites—aptly named. Pay attention the next time you watch a report; you can hear their gasps.

Language is mangled and spat out in the race to be louder, faster, and first—but not with me. When I hear rapid‑fire speech, I shut down and look on in wonder. That’s not only because I find it disturbing. I just can’t keep up. That kind of speech hurts my ears.

I may be older, slower, and sure of what I like and what I cannot abide. But I haven’t chased anyone off my lawn yet, so I’ve got that going for me. I also have a genuine concern for others. Speed doesn’t allow for depth, reflection, or the recognition of things that do not fit pre‑established ideas of reality. Given the political climate, it’s important to be open—at least to hear, if not consider, alternatives. But how can you do that when the other side is in a rapid—some would say rabid—boil?

Thankfully, this is less of a problem when talking face‑to‑face. People don’t usually rush unless they have an agenda to push or are trying to get to someone more “important.” In either case, I don’t react; I listen, maybe nod, and wait. If they slip into rapid‑fire rhythm, I deadpan them until they decide I’m not worth the effort. Then they move on. It’s a win for everyone (see Slow Down, People).

There is a spirituality behind this that has to do with breathing in a conscious, deliberate way. You don’t have to be a yogi to slow your breath, though the special‑forces hack of “four in, four out” can give you great results. What you want is the chance to stop, take stock of yourself, and accept reality. Breathing does that. So does a sport like boxing, which teaches the same lesson through control of breath.

Understanding less and less from the radio in the living room—and moving from boiling water to slow‑pouring molasses—is a move toward the interior self. It is the quiet, sweet discovery of who and what you are. Molasses isn’t honey, but neither is it bitumen. It is what it is.

Image credits: Olivie Strauss, Zach Camp. For more, go to Robert Brancatelli. Visit other blog readers under “Who You Are.” Comment by clicking on “Leave a Reply” below or the Contact tab above.