choosing words

They had experienced loss.

With only one suitcase of clothes, they had arrived in Canada, survivors of oppression for being part of an ethnic minority under Saddam’s rule in Iraq. They carried samples of spices that hinted of their homeland and left behind a mother, who lamented their pursuit of writing, the cause of their parting. His three years of prison, for the crime of writing poetry, was one of the reasons they decided to finally flee.

But they had their children. And they had each other.

Ten years later, a new language on their lips and a new home in their hearts, I am privileged to know them. They are committed people – to their community, to their writing, and to one another. They are older now, in their mid-fifties, their children integrated into Canadian life.

Is it because English is still new to them that their words ring with honesty?

“Did your husband tell you I saw him yesterday?” I asked the wife. “No, no.” She looked up at me, reaching to place one hand gently on my cheek. “He did not tell me he saw your beautiful face. I did not even talk to him yesterday.” Her r’s roll in a deep rhythm. “We are so in love you see. People in love don’t need to talk to each other every day.”

I nod with a genuine smile, accepting their expression of romantic love that goes against contemporary portrayals.

I describe how her husband spoke to my writing class the other night about poetry.

The short cropped curls around her face bob up and down in enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so glad. His poetry is very powerful, very beautiful. He is a deep thinker and a good man, my husband.”

My heart grew lighter. I knew this couple dealt with the regular stressors of most families. Too much work, not enough time. She wished she could see her kids more often. She wished she had more time to write. They struggled with sustaining a livelihood, their family and their art. But, always the same words of love and admiration come from her lips, and just as often, from his in return.

No eye rolling, no complaining, no resentment.

Their words are uttered in the midst of the lunchroom, by the filing cabinet, sometimes even in the hallway. But, I am amazed at their power to create hope in me. They are simple words. They only seek to share their life as it really is.

But, the words are a testimony that lives can be fashioned to match our values, and not the other way around.

The words they choose – in every day conversation – make a difference in my life.

And it reminds me – the words I choose everyday – can make a difference in others.