One of the greatest bands of all times is King’s X.
Yes, I know. Who? King’s X. They were going to be the next big thing, but then grunge happened and their brand of melodic, thoughtful, intelligent music was ignored for Seattle punk.
One of my favourite songs of their’s is called “What I know about Love.” The first verse of the song says “From a simple word/To a simple phrase/communication/and forgiving all.”
As a writer and photographer, communication is important to me. Getting ideas across in ways that are understandable and interesting and articulate.
But every once in a while, I completely cock it up. And no, this isn’t a specific apology for something I wrote, though if I have written something that was incomprehensible garbage (yes, I know, it all is. Thank you to those in the cheap seats), I do apologize. Feel free to send notes asking me what I meant, or explaining where I erred.
I freely admit that my editorials are a place where I will occasionally drop in-jokes that only me and someone who lives 2000 km away and will never read what I’ve written will get. But I found it funny. And I laughed. And if you just scratched your head, well, that makes me laugh even harder.
But the goal is not to leave everyone confused all the time. Indeed, the more people pick up what I am laying down, as it were, the better. Communication requires comprehension.
The whole idea of communication is to help create community. Indeed, if you are a cunning linguist, you will notice that the two words start off the same.
The basic idea of the original word—communis—is to share, or to hold things in, well, common.
This can be property, space, faith, ideas…but without communication, there is no community. Without a shared language, shared laws, shared ideas about right and wrong, it is nearly impossible to build a community.
If you say “we are a community”, but then choose to exclude the voices of women, you are not a community, you are a patriarchy. If you say “we are a community”, then chose to exclude the voices of minorities, you are a oligarchy. If you say “we are a community”, then chose to listen only to the voices of the educated, you are a meritocracy.
Community, true community (let’s call it the Platonic ideal of community) let’s everyone have a voice. And it listens to everyone.
This is why community is so hard. Because we no longer have a shared set of rules that govern how we can disagree but still be a part of a group. So instead of working it out, we walk away. We divide instead of draw together.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not arguing for another form of government that shares the same root as communication (that would be communism). Simply that there are times where it is better and more helpful to use that most basic of shared systems—communication—to work out our differences.
It’s also sometimes okay to say “this difference that we have is unable to be resolved with the information we have at hand, but you are still a person I respect and value as part of this community. And if new information comes to light that causes me to change my mind.
When was the last time you changed your mind based on someone’s argument? Or when was the last time you said: “This person is more important to me than my position? My community is more important than my opinion.”
It’s hard. Because we are human. And as much as we are social creatures and need to be a part of a group, we are also selfish and often small minded.
I recently read a story told by Jo Saxton in the book The Dream of You, which she attributes to Ann Voskamp.
“There’s a brilliant family of people in Africa, called the Himba” writes Saxton. “When a Himba woman is expecting a child, she goes out into the wilderness with a few of her sisters, and together they wait till they hear in their hearts the song of the coming child. Himba women wait as long as they need to; they wait under stars; they wait until the dream of the child begins to beat like a singular rhythm under their hearts. Because these sisters know that every heart has its own unique beat—its own wild and blazing purpose. And when the Himba women attune to the song of the coming child, they circle around and together they sing the miraculous refrain of the expected child. Then they return to the gathering of their people and teach this child’s unique song to the waiting community.
“When the anticipated child is finally born and taken into arms, the Himba family enfolds her with their presence, and their voices rise, singing the child’s own song to her breathing in first air of this earth. Later, when the child begins her schooling, the villagers gather and boldly chant the child’s song. And then when the child passes through the initiation to adulthood, the Himba again circle round and sing hopefully and bravely.
“At the time of marriage, the young woman again hears the assuring notes of her very own song, carrying her forward to meet her hopes. But there is one more occasion upon which the Himba sing. If at any time during her life the sister loses her way, falls short, forgets who she really is, or lets anything steal the dream of who she is meant to be, she is gently beckoned to the center of the village. And there she stands, her people forming a safe, ringing circle around her, like her own galaxy of stars. Then the villagers sing, letting the beat of her drum, the rhythm of her own being rouse her to wake to the dream of her soul again. They sing her own soul song to her because Himba sisters believe that change happens most when we remember who we are and whose we are.”
Oh, that we would be like the Himba, to know our community so well to be able to sing the songs of each other’s soul, and to be so connected that we would know when to sing it.
Trent is the publisher of Tumbler RidgeLines.
