What happens to our words when we speak them out loud? Do they float around like cottonwood fluff, gently drifting through the air, waiting to be noticed and heard by those nearby? Do they disperse into the atmosphere, mingling with the surrounding silence, or do they hover in the space around us, patiently awaiting recognition and acknowledgment?
I’ve always wondered what those elusive words actually look like in our imagination. Do they resemble soft clouds, wisps of fog, or gentle fluff floating around, unseen by the naked eyes? Is the world truly filled with words drifting silently through the atmosphere? Do these words ever vanish into thin air or gradually shrink, transforming into fine, tiny specks that linger in the air around us?
I’ve always wondered what truly happens to our words when we find ourselves in a room full of people. I know that when we breathe in an enclosed compartment or room, it becomes filled with the very air we exhale. But what about the words we speak? Are the words we utter, in fact, floating around us like the air we breathe? Are they somehow trapped in the atmosphere surrounding us? Do we inhale the words of other people, absorbing their thoughts and emotions as they mingle with our own while filling the space?
My mind is always turning, constantly contemplating the intriguing possibilities of what ifs. I often wonder if there exists a unique pair of sunglasses that we could wear, which would allow us to actually see the words floating around us in the air. Some of these words would be so vividly clear that you could easily make them out, while others would gently dissipate into thin air, almost like whispers carried away by the breeze.
When we speak harsh words or softly whisper them about someone who is present in the room, do those words cling to that person, or do they cling to us as well, while others observe those words and their impact? Does it truly make sense to choose to speak kindly about others, considering that others can see and hear the words we choose to express? The way we communicate reflects not only on the person being spoken about but also on our own character and the perceptions of those around us.
I realize that I have unfortunately fallen into that somewhat stagnant trap of speaking words and phrases just like everyone else around me. It seems to be a typical human tendency that many people experience, and yet we all have the ability and choice to recognize this behavior and consciously decide to stop it. Do the bad words we speak, much like delicate cottonwood fluff, float around us in the air, and do we then sweep them out our doors, hoping they will drift away into the outdoors and eventually disappear from our lives?
Do the words we speak and share with those around us gradually turn into manifestation words if we express them too often, essentially sending them out into the universe to be picked up and interpreted by others?
Thinking this through, it makes much more sense to be careful and considerate with the words we choose to speak, as they indeed have a way of coming back to you or clinging to you in a manner similar to the delicate Forget-me-not seeds that are covered with tiny hairs or spines. These small, almost imperceptible features easily catch on fur, feathers, and various types of fabric, serving as a reminder that our words, too, can have lasting impacts on others and ourselves.
On a side note:
A cherished memory I hold dear involves the beautiful and delicate flower known as Forget-Me-Not and my beloved mom. This memory brings a smile to my face, yet it also fills me with a sense of longing and nostalgia for her presence. My parents lived in our basement suite, and their doorway was located on the side of our duplex. Mom had a passion for fashion and would often buy numerous pairs of stockings. Regardless of the occasion, she always made an effort to dress up, even on the days she spent relaxing around the house during her days off. I loved to plant those stunning blue flowers right at the front of our house, precisely under the cedar trees. Every time Mom left or came back home, she would have to pass by those lovely flowers. The tiny, unassuming seeds had small burrs that would easily grab onto her delicate stockings. As she entered the door, I could hear her calling out my name with a playful tone, saying, “There goes another pair of stockings, Heather!” I truly miss her dearly.
Heather