Fingers Pointing at the Moon

Photo Credit: Trac Vu

I have loved words ever since I learned what they could make happen. “Cheese” could make my mother put a floppy square of it in front of me. “Woof” could make the dog wag his tail. “Out” could make the kitchen door open to the swing set in the backyard. This was a lot of power for a child just learning the connection between words and the world. As my vocabulary grew, I discovered the power of naming things, as well. “Snow” included everything from the icy flakes falling from the sky to the white blankets they laid over everything in sight. With that one word, I could name everything I saw from behind a plate-glass window in my house without even getting my feet wet.

“Sky” and “lake” were also small words for large things, offering me a child-sized handle on realities beyond my reach. “Bird” proved highly useful, with so much stretch that it worked for blue ones, red ones, tiny ones, and ones bigger than me. “Tree” was likewise versatile. So was “cow.” Every new word I learned put me in new relationship with something in the real world. This was so rewarding that when I encountered more abstract words such as “truth,” “goodness,” and “tomorrow,” I plowed ahead with them in spite of the fact that they had no bodies.

At this late date, it’s hard to believe that I used abstract religious language for so long without realizing something was missing. “Holy” is such a lovely word that I never asked a single thing about what it looks like behind its veil. Same thing with “heavenly,” “transcendent,” spiritual,” and “saved”—words many people still use as if everyone agreed on what they mean. I am leaving “God” off this list, since the differences between what we mean by that word are so apparent, but also because words fail at that point. No one survives a direct encounter with the Really Real with precise language intact. It’s metaphors all the way.

Richard Rohr once used a metaphor of his own in this regard. “We are all fingers pointing at the moon,” he said, “arguing about who has the best finger.”

That leaves a lot of things on earth with bodies we can touch, which makes me wonder why we so often settle for knowing their names instead. I’m not a birder by a long shot, but I do like learning the names of the birds who come to my feeders. Spring migration is underway, which means that the red bird on my suet cage could be a Scarlet Tanager instead of a Northern Cardinal. I also like knowing the difference between a Carolina Chickadee and a White-breasted Nuthatch. Yes, this makes me feel smart, but it also seems polite. I am human in the same way they are birds. We are not all the same, and it’s nice when someone notices.

One day, I noticed an Eastern Phoebe at the feeder who was not like all the others. She looked harried, with a small feather on her head that was always sticking up, and she ate more quickly than the others. After seeing her two or three days in a row, I realized that “Eastern Phoebe” was more like her surname than the one she answered to at home. I did not try to own her by giving her a first name (though “Frazzled” came to mind), but I did realize—with a smack of my head—that she was far more than a “bird” or even a “Phoebe.” She was an individual, with characteristics all her own, and things on her mind I knew nothing about.

In the same moment, I remembered that words aren’t things. Words point to things. They stand in for direct experience, naming things as a way of securing their reality without requiring anyone to go deeper than that for purposes of identification. The word that points to the real thing can be a booster rocket, a go-between. Or it can serve as a substitute for the real thing, if anyone is so inclined. I still remember the friend who preferred to sit inside the house identifying constellations overhead with the night sky app on his phone instead of going outside to look up at the night sky.

If you want to experiment with this yourself, consider the usefulness of the word “leaf.” Like “bird” and “sky,” it covers a lot of territory. You have probably used it for a long time to mean anything green that grows on a tree. Now go outside and find one particular leaf you can hang with for a while. You decide how long. The important thing is to introduce yourself first—by name—before asking the leaf to tell you about itself. Then let it, without worrying about whether either of you is doing this right. Just pay attention, and when you’re sure you’ve made a connection, say something to let the leaf know you’re grateful for its time. Then get on with your day, noticing what happens now when you say or think the word “leaf.”

Since I am in the middle of this thought, it will be interesting to see what you say in the comments. You might even try this exercise with a disembodied word such as “holy” or “saved” and see where that goes. What are you pointing to when you use that word? Even if it doesn’t have a body, where do you feel it in yours? The moon is a real beauty, but your finger is too—your own live connection between the word and the world.