Discomfort

I like words. Scratch that. I love them.

If I don’t know the etymology, I will look it up because words hold secrets, whispers of ideas long forgotten. To understand a word gives me the power of ages past.

In fact, in Old English a “wordhord” described the hoard or arsenal of words a poet held like ammunition. To have a weapon is one thing, but to know its purpose and application another.

This brings me to “discomfort.” The word means literally “apart from strength.” To be separated from power. Interestingly, though, as the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” To willingly place yourself in a vulnerable position, to feel your own human frailty is in fact the locus of finding power.

This undermining or postmodern “deconstruction” of the word goes further with the French etymology of both a lack of consolation and support. Yet, what I notice most in my moments of discomfort is the consolation and support that I find outside of me. It is as if I must go to a place of weakness of self to look outside of myself and find the strength I need to continue.

Forgive me for the English major tangent, but I am currently looking at this venture of ours as a moment to find the strength in the other that conversely builds us up. Despite the sweat of our brows our company could fall flat on its face but together we will step over it stronger than before.