naming the life you want “exactly and wholly”

In the summer of 2019, I found myself reading a book for the first time in a long time. My 60-to-70-hour-a-week job and parenting a 2-year-old, while pregnant with our second child, didn’t leave much space to read for pleasure.

My brain was so full, so noisy. When I tried pulling up even the juiciest mystery to read at night, just looking at a page made me feel irritable and defensive. Like the words were demanding the space, or making the noise, that would finally crack me open. Not in a liberating, let-in-the-beauty-and-awareness kind of way, but in a threatening, everything-keeping-me-manic-but-alive-will-spill-out kind of way.

Which is why I was surprised to find myself, one afternoon, in our comfy corduroy chair, reading. My husband and our toddler were napping. Naps were usually my first choice for making use of free time, but I was feeling too restless to lay down.

The book I picked up that afternoon was Ursula K. LeGuin’s 1968, A Wizard of Eathsea. It had been recommended to me years ago but had sat untouched by my bed for so long it had become part of the scenery. Like a salty snack that you’d forgotten about catches your eye one day in the pantry, I reached for that book.

As I read, my mind grew quiet and spacious and my body slowed to a steady calm.

The book was about Ged, a young boy who discovers he has magic in him and wishes to make use of it. After some twists and turns, he begins to learn how.

In order to channel the powers inherent in his body, he has to first learn the name of anything that he wishes to transform or create. The name of every leaf on a tree, every layer of light, every inlet of ocean.

“…to lay a spell of storm or calm over all the ocean, the mage’s spell must say not only the word [ocean] but the name of every stretch and bit and part of the sea through all the archipelago and all the outer reaches…”[1]

Ged learns that refusing to call something what it really is, trying to cushion, dampen, or mute the meaning renders the magic useless.

As his teacher explains, our powers become most potent when we can name what we want to happen “exactly and wholly.” [2]

That’s as far as I got. My little one woke up, the world of Earthsea flew back into the book and I stumbled back into my day. But this idea took hold inside of me:

to work magic, you must name the thing you want to change and the thing you want to create.  

Magic, shifting or transforming something, bringing new energy, form, and color into the world-- or a life-- requires “the true naming of a thing.”[3]

I had a career that I had studied, trained, and paid lots of money for. I had invested a decade of my time, energy, focus, and identity into that career. Now I felt disoriented and discontent. Images of a different life were emerging in my periphery. I tried hard for years not to look. I was afraid to let go of what I knew, even if the status quo was so intensely depleting that I was struggling to stay upright.

Making a change, bringing a new way of life into existence seemed difficult and heavy too.

Feeling anything but powerful, I started to timidly voice the names of the things I wanted to change:

twelve-hour days, on call, never enough, confined, absence, exhaustion, trapped, all-nighters, all-consuming, missed moments, drowning, blocked, overwhelmed, dull, missed dinners, missed conversations, numb, restricted, lost weekends, depleted, walls, missed bedtimes, missed life.

As I gained strength, I started to name the fragments of light and color that showed up in my periphery, burning to be brought into existence:

rest, stillness, feeling, silence, pleasure, play, homemade meals, walking, trees, reading, children-seen-heard-held, full night of sleep, alive, swimming, creative freedom, husband-seen-heard-held, writing, coloring, playgrounds, nourished, stretching, snuggling, done by 5, napping, picnics, enough, midday fresh air, bedtimes, presence.

Once I learned the names of what I wanted to change, the power to do so found me.

Once I learned the names of what I wanted to create, new energy flowed into me, and, slowly, I found that I was able.

We have the power to change or transform a situation, to bring new color and form into our existence.  Our change begins when we honor what we feel and know by calling that feeling and knowing by name.

Somehow, the naming of a thing creates a break in the barrier between what is and what could be. Whether we feel fully ready or not, that break sends new life flowing into our world to shake us up. The change we fear, resist, deny, or dread demands to be seen, heard, and contended with.

Hold close the names of what you want to change, and even closer the names of what you want to create. Though we too often forget, they grant us the power to shape our own lives.

[1] A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K LeGuin, pg 51

[2] Same book, pg 52

[3] Same book again, pg 50