lan•guor (laŋ ́ gər)

What a great word.  Say it out loud, and slowly.  L-A-N-G-U-O-R.  It  LINGERS on the tongue.  When you say it like I told you to, it's almost onomatopoetic (see last post.) 

I'd like to raise an army of languor proponents to defend the honor of languoring, and languorers like myself.  I think the idea doesn't get enough respect.  Unfortunately, it will never happen.  It's possible that as we "speak" all my potential recruits are fully occupied by just existing--unwilling apparently, to lift their backsides off the sofa, listless. 

They sound like a lazy, lousy bunch of people, but I think I'd like them a lot.  And I think they might let me be the general of their "languor army" because I think after some conversation, they'd see that I was the "proponent in chief" and "practitioner in chief" of languor.

Going by Webster's definition, languor is not really something you'd want to have much of in your life: "lack of vigor or vitality, weakness, listlessness."  Pre-18th century, the word languor was used mostly to describe a symptom of those who were ill or diseased.  We use the word "lethargy" in its place today.  It doesn't sound appealing, does it?

I know what they mean with that Webster definition.  It brings to mind a television commercial from the 1990s, I think, which depicted two grown men sitting in a living room, on their duffs, of course, in a haze of smoke which turns out to be marijuana smoke.  Their Mom comes home, they hear her come through the door, and they attempt to cover up the evidence of their crime, trying to fan the smoke out the window.  She hollers to them, "what are you boys doing?"  to which they reply, "Nothing, Ma!"  And that's the punch line.  The moral of the story was that steady marijuana use robbed you of all motivation, so that all you wanted to do was nothing, like these two grown men sitting on their Mom's couch.  That public service announcement was effective, I thought.  I got the message.  And I probably wouldn't recruit those two men for my languor movement, because that's not what I'm talking about. 

And I don't want people to languish in the languor army--even though you'd think there wouldn't be a choice.  Bear with me here as I work through this.  To languish is to fail to make progress or be successful.  Even worse, it means to suffer from being forced to remain in an unpleasant place or situation.  I don't think there's a fate worse than languishing.  Having your flight delayed 20 times and then, finally, cancelled?  That's languishing.  Waiting for someone for hours at the wrong location?  That's languishing, too.  Hoping for your ship to come in, when you wouldn't even know it if you saw it and are miles away from the pier?  That's languishing, and as general of the languor army, I want no part of that for me or my men and women.

But I would want our days to be languid.  Pay attention to THIS portion of the definition of languid:  "displaying or having a disinclination for physical exertion or effort.  Slow and relaxed; pleasantly lazy, peaceful."  The sample sentence below the definition mentioned something about beaches in Italy.  Perfect.

That's what I'm talking about.

I have felt guilty this summer about the languid pace of my days, some of them.  Not all of my days are languid.  Many are frenetically busy.  My brothers tell me that coming to visit our home is like joining a game of double dutch jumprope.  You start hopping and you keep hopping until you leave, breathless and relieved.  I come from a long line of compulsively busy people--on one side of my family, at least.  My Dad, for example, woke up in the pre-dawn darkness and went distance running, compulsively.  His Mom (my grammy) used to tell me in all seriousness that, though she felt poorly, she wasn't going to be sick because "she didn't have time to be sick."   I think that part of being Mormon is to feel that nothing short of beehive-paced busyness will do.  I like busyness too, but our word for TODAY is languor, so let's continue.  After all, I am running for general of the languor proponent army, and I do want the "job."

The languor  I'm talking about is as defined by my desktop dictionary app:  "a state or feeling, often pleasant, of tiredness or inertia."  What I'm talking about is optional languor.  Not an incapability of exertion, but a delicious disinclination to do so.

Have you had that?

I think of Hawaii where I grew up.  The pace of island life is nothing if not languid,  and guess what?  People in Hawaii enjoy a longer life expectancy than most other people.  The people of Samoa are called "the happy people" and Tonga is known as "the friendly Islands."  If you want an auditory descriptor, "Polynesia, the Musical"would be staged with Jack Johnson music.  Languid.

But not vapid.  Not without movement or meaning.  Influential artists and thinkers and writers--known to gather at cafes and do nothing but sit and talk for hours, are an example of important languor.  I think of an example given by a friend of ours who had the opportunity to live in Europe.  When he visited Switzerland, he noticed that every single home was tidy, cords of wood neatly stacked outside, the landscaping picturesque, public spaces pristine.  On the same trip he travelled next door to Italy which, by comparison, seemed chaotic.  The trains there were covered with graffiti, the public spaces seemed to be haphazard and disorganized.  What did such a culture of apparent languor produce?  DaVinci, Michelangelo, Columbus and Galileo (and those are just the ones you can refer to with one name).  "In contrast," he asked, "what is perhaps the most famous contribution to emerge from the tidy culture of the Swiss?  The cuckoo clock!"  

If you want a scriptural understanding of languor, think of the Mary and Martha story.  Martha is running around being busy busy busy.  Mary is disinclined to work in such a way, instead sitting idly at the feet of Jesus.  When Martha complains about Mary's languor, Jesus says, "Martha Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things, but Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her."  Mary gains something from her languor which Martha can never gain through frantic effort, no matter how well-intentioned.  I agree with Jesus, that good listening requires languor.  Every wise parent learns to listen, and wise parents find out sooner or later that critical disclosures of information, or even meandering but relationship-building conversations, do not come on schedule.  They come when a child feels comfortable enough to engage.  That comfort does not happen without a parent sitting still, apparently with nothing better in the whole wide world to do than listen for a long, languid time to a chatting child.  

He wasn't saying very much, but I was listening.

 Meditation?  A languor exercise.  To meditate you must breathe in and out and gently scoff at the urge to do anything or think anything.  For many people, meditation is a spiritually-strengthening exercise.  Reading?  If you want to do it right, you've got to sit still and refuse to do the many chores which are calling your name.  And what about pondering the scriptures?  Meaningful pondering requires an attitude of languor--passive and open reception of spiritual truths.  They cannot be wrested or manhandled.  Stop and smell the roses?  The languorer's creed.  Snuggling?  It's loving languorously.

My bias towards languor comes from my family culture.  Despite the noble examples of some of our busy ancestors, when we get together, the bulk of our time is spent sitting in extremely relaxed postures, talking about whatever comes to mind, and it goes on almost endlessly.  Sometimes eating is a burden.  Getting us all out the door to do something fun and proactive is terribly difficult.  When someone with incredible tenacity (Charles, for example) manages to convince us all to do something active, we enjoy ourselves immensely.  But we always return to our languor as soon as we can.  We like to "be" together. We re-establish our identity as we languor together; we express love; we laugh and laugh; it's wonderful.

No one's rushing to do the dishes.

As I close, I'm guessing that maybe you're thinking,  "Duh!  When you define it like that, of COURSE  languor is a good thing."  Well, that's what I'm talking about.  So will you join my pro-languor movement?  All you have to do is. . . . nothing at all.

(Can I be the general?)