The Language of the Universe

My wife's family tells the story of her younger brother's first words. He was a three-year-old who hadn't spoken until suddenly, motivated by his parents having cross words with one another, he announced, in a full sentence, "I'm leaving now!" He then walked out of the room, leaving the rest of the family in stunned silence.

Most of us have stories about first words, our own, our children, our siblings. It's typically a celebratory moment right up there with the first step. 

But, of course, our children have been talking to us all along, starting with that first cry of discomfort or hunger. We are born calling out to our fellow humans for help, for soothing, for survival. It's strange to think that with such a start in life that so many of us grow into adults who don't ask for help. That really doesn't seem like something we should lose. Indeed, it could be argued that the principle failure of society is that we make one another feel too ashamed or weak or betrayed to turn to one another and say, "Please help me."

But then, taking a step back, we can see that just as our babies have been "talking" with us long before their official first words, maybe all these awful, upsetting, destructive behaviors we see in the world, the mental illness, the loneliness, the violence, is exactly that: "Please help me."

After all, that's what we tell ourselves is happening in our classrooms. We say that behavior is communication. 

When a newborn cries, we hear them saying "Help me," then proceed to try to figure out what specifically they are asking from us -- a diaper change, feeding, burping, warmth, coolness, quiet. Sometimes we figure it out. Sometimes we don't. If only they could tell us where it hurts.

We hear their gurgles and grunts and coos, the sounds not associated with distress, differently. They are not calls to action. We gurgle, grunt, and coo back at them. A newborn cannot yet control their body. Their hands cannot grasp. They cannot cover their ears. They cannot move away or toward an oder, let alone pinch their nose against it. They only feel what they serendipitously touch. They only taste what we put in their mouths. Their voices are the first and only way they have of reaching out to connect with their world.

We tend to think of speaking, of language, as communication, and it clearly is, but more fundamentally, it seems to me, we speak in order to connect, to be in relationship with all that is not discretely us.

When we dine with friends, it's not really for the food. We may share information with one another. We may talk about our feelings, our troubles, our ideas, and our accomplishments, but the real purpose of dinner with friends is to weave relationship through the words that come out of our mouths; the words that come into our ears. At the end of the evening it matters far less what was said or heard, and far more that we feel closer.

I speak with my wife all day long. We don't need to talk that much, at least if pure communication is the goal. Indeed, usually we are saying things to one another that we both already know. After all, we've been together for nearly four decades. When I tell myself the truth, I'm often using the excuse of wanting something from her, for help, in order to speak with her, to connect, to weave relationship. I don't really need her to solve any problems. Just knowing that she is listening is enough. Maybe that's how our babies feel when they seem inconsolable: they just want to be heard. In this regard, my wife and I do need to speak with one another.

At the most distant frontiers of theoretical physics, in that place where science and philosophy meet, scientists are studying quantum mechanics, which is so strange and mysterious that no one can really claim to understand it. For instance, it increasingly seems, counter-intuitively, that the universe is made not of stuff, but rather of interactions: that the only thing that really exists, right down to the sub-atomic level, are relationships. As physicist and philosopher Carlo Rovelli asks, "(D)oes it mean, as it seems to me, that we must accept the idea that reality is only interaction?"

It's a view of reality found in the ancient stories and ways of many indigenous cultures. It's certainly the reality for a newborn whose entire existence and purpose is to interact, to connect. "Help me," they cry. "I'm helping you," they gurgle. It is the language of the universe.

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"Few people are better qualified to support people working in the field of early childhood education than Teacher Tom. This is a book you will want to keep close to your soul." ~Daniel Hodgins, author of Boys: Changing the Classroom, Not the Child, and Get Over It! Relearning Guidance Practices

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