I didn’t really need a scientist to tell me, but the confirmation felt nice. I’ve been naming things for years. The trees in the garden. Favorite spoons. T-shirts. Cups. Not to mention people. My mother always had a special nickname. My grandma too. I suppose because as that person — the one I named — the one that when called from my lips, turned in the sea of Hvezdas or the girth of Herbergers, and existed only for me.
I was listening to a podcast yesterday. It was this scientist, this expert on identifying species, that said it — “Nothing exists until we name it.” I repeated it over and over in my head, until I could hear the sound of my mother voice… the shortened version on the message, “Hi Jod…” The longer version when it was all heart. The lilt of it when I could feel her pride, telling someone about a painting, a book. I can hear every version still. I can name it. And the love exists.
I was painting birds while listening to the podcast. A page full of pink. The pink made me think of Barbie. I found just the song to accompany the short video of the collection. In it, the singer says, “Hey, Barbie.” I knew I had to send it to my friend. I thought she would like it, get a smile, but what she heard was her own mother calling her. Maybe that’s not scientific proof, but it’s more than enough for me.
What are we here for, if not to make things personal? It’s all personal. And I want to feel everything. Listen. Look. Love. And call it all by name.
