A Love Letter to the Dictionary
Since I was a kid, the dictionary has been my treasure map. Not just a book, but a portal to endless discoveries, its pages gave me a playground where words became toys, puzzles, and poetry. I spent hours flipping through its thin, crinkling leaves, plucking words like curious blossoms, their shapes and sounds as intriguing as their meanings. I would sound them out, rolling them around my tongue like marbles, delighting in their texture, marveling at how some words felt funny, their syllables tumbling out like little acrobats. Sometimes I would even incorporate a newly found nugget into one of the essays my mom would make me write (as penitence for some immature infraction I committed) and I reveled in the naughty vengeance I felt when her face contorted with chagrin at my snarkiness.
This joy was not confined to definitions alone. Over the years, I started collecting quirky turns of phrase, little linguistic gems from the way people spoke. I'll never forget the Hungarian tour guide who proudly declared, in his charmingly stilted English, that he enjoyed harvesting compliments from visitors who admired the local architecture. It was a perfect, poetic expression, as though admiration was a crop ripened in the fields of beauty. Or my favorite university professor, who would observe that sometimes social scientists confect anthropological theories to explain the Human condition and its quirks.
Words, I've discovered, are living things. They evolve, stretch, and take on new flavors when mixed together, much like an experimental dish that surprises with its odd but satisfying taste. I find joy in tinkering with language, twisting familiar phrases into something novel or using words unconventionally to capture a thought just out of reach. To me, a sentence isn't just a vehicle for information - it's an invitation to incite or arouse an exchange of ideas.
But there's a danger in loving language too much. One time, my enthusiasm for precision earned me the unpleasant moniker of semantic pedantic. I had overstepped, correcting someone's misuse of a word in a way that left the conversation flat and me feeling more smug than smart. The sting of that moment taught me an important lesson: words should connect, not alienate. I vowed to use my love of language not to lecture but to delight--to craft sentences as clear and concise as they are flavorful. Like a well-prepared dish, a good sentence should nourish the mind and bring a smile to the face. For years I have brought this perspective to my college students, gently coaxing them to explore that nerdy book called the dictionary, with me and challenging them to give up their reindeer games for at least a little while. The cotton candy that is social media is rotting away their wonderful minds, but I press on with my "big words" because I have witnessed many of these bright learners weave some lofty language units into casual conversations with deftness and sometimes even with panache.
The dictionary and its trusty companion, the thesaurus, remain my steadfast allies in this mission. They are treasure troves of possibility, their entries like jewels that can transform ordinary thoughts into extraordinary expressions. They are not relics of the past but dynamic tools for the present and future, enabling us to say what we mean and mean what we say with precision, beauty, and a touch of whimsy.
For me, the dictionary isn't just a reference - it's a reminder of the infinite ways we can shape and share our thoughts. It's a celebration of the power of language to connect, to entertain, and to inspire. Every word is an invitation, every phrase an adventure, and every sentence a chance to say, Come along - let's see where this takes us.