By Andrea Lingle

Imagine a jeweller who had developed to such an extent his knowledge of precious stones that his whole life was in this distinction between genuine and false, suppose he saw a child playing with a variety of stones, genuine and false, mingled together, and having equal delight in both—I think he would shudder inwardly at seeing the absolute distinction resolved; but in case he beheld the child’s happiness, its delight in the game, he perhaps would humble himself under it and be absorbed in this “shuddering” sight.

Kierkegaard from Stages of Life’s Way, p. 205 (SV VIII 37)

Imagine.

ɪˈmædʒ.ɪn

Imagine is a word that fills the mouth. In the International Phonetic Alphabet rendering above, it is clear that it is a complex word. A short vowel as the first syllable. Short, uncomplicated, almost elided with the next sound: a brief beginning. The second syllable is accented and complex. A “bi-labal nasal” m, which tugs the first syllable into the second, so concerned that this word hang together. A short a follows—just slightly closed, too guarded to be an arms-wide-open sound. Reserve nestled in the midst of an expansive word. Then a complicated soft g. An open sound that forces the mouth to hang suspended but engaged. The word closes succinctly with another short i and a brief, internal “alveolar nasal” n.

Why would I have used one hundred twenty-two of my carefully budgeted words to phonetically describe the word imagine? What does this have to do with parables? 
When was the last time you slowed down enough to truly taste a word? To absorb where it sits in your mouth. How the syllables hand back or rush forward. How the spelling speaks of centuries of history.

We rush through life, tick off tasks, reply-to-sender, inbox-zero, hamper-zero*, healthy eating, exercise, co-ordinate schedules, corporate office, home office, Office Depot, self-care, meditation, prayer, scroll-scroll-scroll . . . 

Parables refuse to allow such break-neck treatment. Read through quickly parables refuse to speak. We might get a brief cordiality, perhaps a glimpse of wisdom, but if we do not allow parables space in our imaginations, we will not be moved by them. A parable is meant to be pondered, revisited, argued with, tasted.

It would be a paltry reading of “The Jeweller” to assume that Kierkegaard is denigrating the jeweler because of his acquired taste. Surely there is value in understanding genuine and false. In fact, we could all do a bit more to learn to discern between those two. If this story is worth taking up, there must be more. 

How will you sit with this parable? 

Imagine. 

Taste. Ponder. 

*Haha, just kidding, that never happens