Thoughts Without Words

Our second child, Everett, was born this week. It’s intriguing to watch him think, and I do think he’s thinking. For two days after he was born, he spent his few waking moments looking around the hospital room, at Marcy and me, and at his hands. I’m not sure how profound his thoughts were, but he did seem to be studying everything. Clara Grace was that way, too, and people more objective than I told me the same sentiments.

Now, I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but when we left the hospital room I imagined him thinking, “You mean there’s more?!” Except that, I don’t think he was thinking that. At this point in life, everything is novel. The trick for infants, I believe, is finding a baseline normal.

Not only do I not want to put words in his mouth, but I’m not sure I want to put words in his head either. I have always reveled in thinking without words, and I don’t mean that in a transcendental-mindless-meditative sort of way. Wordless ponderings can be completely valid—just because the words are absent does not mean that emotions, instincts, images, memories, or nothingness necessarily fill the void. Sometimes words just aren’t enough.

Do thoughts consist entirely of words? Are words the actual substance of thinking? Or are words simply an expression of those thoughts—even if only expressed internally? And is that even syntactically possible—to express something internally? Wouldn’t that be an inpression? (See what happens when words muddle thinking?) Or are words just some sort of acknowledgement of the thoughts?

On an entirely basic level, consider an animal. We had a very clever dog for a while; she could escape from anything, and she did not always employ her sheer strength or chewing abilities to do so. Sometimes she studied a situation and simply figured it out. She could open latches, climb chain link fences, and foil me. I would watch her study a situation and then act. I don’t think she was barking thoughts to herself in her head, since a dog language is different than human language. I do think she was able to analyze and evaluate a situation, and then form a plan of action. Bloom would have been proud.

Here’s an example: Our dog, Katie—who was basically a furred debacle capped with a nose and a tail—would escape from her pen routinely. At first it was relegated to simple digging under the fence. I would come home, find Katie on the front porch (obviously pleased with herself), and put her back in the pen. Then, I would entice her to come back out. As she squeezed through her latest hole, I would retrieve tent pegs and a hammer. She would watch me seal the hole and then go in the pen and inspect the work.

Once, while performing this weekly game, I put Katie back in the pen and tried to convince her to come back out. She wouldn’t do it. I offered her all of the irresistible treats I could think of—a walk, a ball, meat. She really wanted to play with the ball and I could see she was weighing the options. Finally, she gave in and started nosing under a portion of fence. I squatted down and stared. I could not imagine how she had squeezed her 40 pounds through that hole, but I also knew she could be very determined. I pulled out the tent pegs and hammer. After I sealed the hole, I headed over to the gate to let Katie out as promised. I didn’t have to. She was sitting right behind me. She had duped me into fixing a non-hole while she sneaked out the real escape. I hate being outwitted by dogs.

There are many other Katie stories in which she demonstrated her analytical abilities, some even more than this one. And if you’ve ever read Gary Paulsen’s book, My Life in Dog Years, you know that even this level of thinking is not that impressive in the world of dogs. I only cite this as an example of thinking without words.

Don’t get me wrong; I love words. It’s just that sometimes they are inadequate.

I find myself in wordless thinking most often at night after my wife, Marcy, has gone to sleep. I can’t help it. I’ll be lying there looking at her; moonlight will filter through our seventy-year old single-pane window to end at her face. It is hard to relay here what I think during those moments, because they are deeper ideas, understandings, and emotions than I can express.

Sometimes I think I get close to understanding her, and other times I wish I could. Sometimes I want to get inside her head and just sit there, listening, because every time she has vocalized her thoughts to me, they have been fascinating. Her ideas, syntheses, calculus, and interests are uncommon and distinctive and superior. I fear losing her in some boiling tragedy, but safe in the idea that she would never choose to leave; I feel rich just to know her, let alone be married to her.

Often I meet weird, bizarre, unfortunate, complaining women of ugly character and I turn to my wife and tell her how grateful I am to be married to her. But, sometimes I meet wonderful, intelligent, clever, creative women and I am still struck by the gratitude I have for Marcy. She is so unique and remarkable as a person and so fulfilling as a wife and friend that no one else can compare with her and it makes it difficult to formulate entire syntactic thoughts about her. It seems that all the best words could only make a shell around her and still not explore the depths of her personality and character.

As Clara Grace left infancy and moved towards toddler-hood, it was interesting to watch the progression of thinking without words into the expression of those thoughts. For her, mostly, it was frustrating. To know what she wanted to express but be unable to express it was maddening for her and sometimes exasperating for us as parents. As her vocabulary grew, we would be surprised to hear what she was thinking and when. Sometimes she would wake up in the morning and tell us about the thunderstorm she heard the night before, or the about the fish painted on her wall, or a line from a story that her mommy had told her. One morning, we put her in the high chair and she began retelling the story of “When the Elephant Walks.” Out of context, it was hilarious.

But anyway, Everett has absolutely no words for his thoughts yet. He stares at his mommy for a long time and I know he’s thinking about her. I don’t know what his thoughts are; maybe he’s trying to figure out who this mommy really is, but at the very least I bet they are about safety and welcome and love.

I guess that is how I think about God sometimes. At certain times my thoughts about God are very lucid and theological and doctrinal. At other times I am certain that I will always have a very pedantic knowledge of his character, but I know that I sit in belief and wonder and love and welcome. Although, I don’t always view God as being very safe. A God who is just and is explicit about His expectations cannot be entirely safe, but a God who is love and offers infinite grace and is explicit about His expectations cannot be entirely dangerous either.

One thing I know, though, is that my mind and my vocabulary are too small to portray these thoughts adequately. All I can think of is how Everett must feel.