Metaphors are the Darndest Things (Part Three)

“Do you know what you made, S.?” I said, hugging her and smiling.

“What?”

“A metaphor.  Saying our life was this crumpled piece of paper.  It was a metaphor.”

A serious, but earnest smile formed at the corners of her mouth.  “I did?”



"Our life is like
this crumpled piece of paper.
Nothing is smooth."

“Yeah,” I replied.  

She looked down at her lap, her face fixed in this peculiar, closeted smile.  She sat there as if creating such a mysterious thing as a metaphor were some sort of initiation rite to a secret society, a most solemn and profound experience which, despite herself, she had been tickled pink to having taken part in.

She was right to be delighted, of course, although using metaphors to express ourselves shouldn’t be regarded as a secret artisan’s craft.  Unfortunately, as a civilization we tend to treat metaphors exactly as that— a fancy figurative device, the stuff and fluff of romantic poets, greeting card engineers, song writers, and ad men. 

But they’re not.  Metaphors are the very stuff of thought itself . . . and the emotions that inform thought.  In fact in recent years child psychologists have been conducting important work in exploring  the ways that children use metaphors as a means of communicating difficult experiences or experiences for which they have no clear emotional register.   “Children often communicate their experiences through metaphors,” psychologist Marilyn Snow reminds the reader in her recent study, “Creative Metaphors of Life Experiences through Play Therapy.” 

And the fact that children liberally use metaphors in their self-expression is particularly relevant to understanding how they deal with difficult situations.  As Snow and her colleagues note, “metaphors allow the child to protect the self and project the experience on to another object, which is much less threatening.”

In other words?  Thinking of life as a rejected piece of crumpled paper is a bit safer than saying “life in this funny farm of a house and family stresses me out, Mom.”  And frankly, a bit more probable.  She has no concrete vocabulary for articulating the phenomena of ‘stress’ or ‘frazzled nerves’ yet . . . but she has a working knowledge of the frustrations that come with a crumpled piece of paper, having been in school for the past four years. 

 “S., do you know what metaphor I use to describe this family?”

“What?”

“A mosaic.  Do you remember the mosaics that the ancient Romans created to decorate their floors?  The ones we’ve seen in Italy?”

 “Yeah,” she replied.   



“Do you know that most of the tiny stones used to create those mosaics were just waste of the waste? They were chips, cut from the shards, which were themselves left on the ground after the builders had finished cutting cut each block of stone.  And each little tiny piece, in and of itself, was nothing really to look at or value.  They were dusty, uneven in thickness, sharp at the edges . . . all in all, wholly un-extraordinary junk rock.”


“Umm-hmm.”

“The thing is, even though each little tile had rough edges, even though each one was in and of itself a piece of garbage, when they were laid out together in their intricate patterns, sealed and polished they made a really beautiful piece of art. And a strong one too! Some of those mosaics have lasted for thousands of years!”

Miss S’s face brightened into a full smile.  “So we’re a mosaic?”



“I like to think so.  Especially on days like you had today, when nothing seems to go right, and everything seems to be a little rough around the edges.   On those days, I really have to remind myself that it’s just a tile, a rough, junky tile in what will be a beautiful mosaic . . . that we’re making together.”

 “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully.  “I like that!" 

“Well, nothing says you have to think about it that way . . . but if it helps you to get through those rough spots of the week, by all means.” 

I gave her a quick snuggle before I stood up.  “Love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

I left her room with a smile at my small victory in parenting.  Without denying her the validity of her feelings, I was nevertheless able to reframe them against the promise of the future rather than the banality of the present.

Ahh.   The power of metaphor. 

Thinking of hers, I began to wonder whether our phone number was on the school’s speed dial yet.   I quickly jotted down a note to ask the school secretary when I saw her the next day, a little anxious at what she'd say.

Part One      Part Two