Much reality, too many words, not enough words-- a la vez

In the time frame of a month, I have been in 5 different countries (counting my layover in Frankfurt), which have their own distinct cultures, and their own distinct languages. Since I have never traveled overseas before this summer, I was gearing up my psyche for serious culture shock. And while there has been much cultural richness to process along the way (details to follow shortly), I have actually experienced language shock. Funny, considering I have never studied or spoken French, Italian, German, or Arabic.

Regardless of my linguistic background, I found (and find) myself struggling to acclimate to each new language. In France, I listened carefully for commonly used phrases and mimicked them, while making reasonable connections between French and my knowledge of Spanish, un otro idioma romantico. This, of course, led to some moments of complete confusion, and I would break down and ask French locals if they spoke Spanish. Haha.

Italy was not as difficult a switch, since I was used to hearing French and I missed English and Spanish (Italian is a close relative of French and Spanish-- it's rather amusing how it seems to be a mix of the two-- and Portuguese. Sometimes I could fake Italian by slurring Spanish really fast. :D

But the shift into hearing Arabic has been, predictably, the toughest. I hear no Latin roots, and when I do hear things that sound similar, I cannot be safe in assuming that they mean what they would in a Romantic language. I'm finding it hard to write here in Jordan. Yes, I believe the reality of our humanity far surpasses the limitations of languages and symbols; that is why I'm here. But it is foolish to think that I can fully understand another's story when I know so little of her language, of the way she interacts with reality.

There are so many words, so many, and yet so few. How do we share our stories in the first place? Through more than words, I suspect. Dangerous words for a poet to write (could be out of a job, but it's not like poetry has ever been written for its grand monetary income). We share our stories through silence, what's not said along with what is; an embrace; in sobs and laughter; in the books we pass to others with exclamations scribbled in the margins, saying, "You must read this. It changed my life" (always read books that have changed friends lives); in our poetry; our music; the way we fidget with serviettes at the table or pamphlets at a recital. How do we share our stories? I don't know how exactly, how they transfer from one person to another (maybe we don't own them as individuals in the first place). How do we share our stories? By the grace of God? Perhaps. Perhaps.