Dearglach is one of those Irish words with no direct translation. It describes the red glow of an autumn evening sky. On an evening like this, it feels right that this glow warrants a descriptive word of its own.
We are entering the season of darkness, candles, and smoke.
We head out for an evening walk in a small old forest, when, unannounced, the setting sun breaks through the cloud. All of a sudden the sun paints the forest, river, and sky in a wash of glowing pink. The sound of passing cars lingers in the background as we walk, but here, in the woods, we are alone, witnessing this special moment.
Sometimes, in moments like this, it feels like nature is putting on its most extraordinary show. Pulling out all the stops. And no one is paying attention.
It reminds me of our three-year-old and her impromptu, after-dinner performances. She’s our middle child and she is never shy about commanding our attention. If we drift, she’ll sing louder, add more layers of dress-up costume, stand on a chair. She makes sure we watch and listen. And, she is right - she is magical.
On an evening like this it can feel like our natural world is also saying ... how extraordinarily beautiful and captivating do I need to be to hold your attention. What do I need to do to get you all to pause for a moment - to get you to notice me?
And as the light begins to fade I remember the word amhdhorchacht - the Irish word for the gloaming or twilight. Amhdhorchacht translates roughly into raw or uncooked darkness - I savour this idea of an uncooked darkness. I visualise a midnight sky as a well very done, almost burnt fruit cake or báirín breac.
And then, sadly, I inevitably think of all the Irish words I don’t know. I wonder about all the words that could deepen my connection to our natural world.
I know that my mind is taking me on this train of thought because of an article I recently re-read about climate and language loss. One particularly depressing estimate suggests that half of the world’s 7,000 languages will disappear by the end of this century.
In “contemporary life” we use language to reflect our power over nature. Government departments refer to nature as “resources.” Industries reframe the environment in ways that remove obstacles to profit - The logging industry, for example, calls old-growth forests “decadent” or “over-mature,” ignoring their biodiversity and climate-stabilizing powers.
In her book Braiding Sweetgrass Robin Wall Kimmerer compares the use of “it” in English to Potawatomi. “We never refer to a member of our family, or indeed to any person, as it” because “it robs a person of selfhood and kinship, reducing a person to a mere thing.” Kimmerer goes on to say “in Potawatomi and most other indigenous languages, we use the same words to address the living world as we use for our family. Because they are our family.”
Speaking to the Guardian, Oriini Kaipara describes how the Māori language offers a unique way to connect with the environment. The word matemateāone is nearly untranslatable into English. But it expresses a deep, spiritual, emotional longing for the Earth. “In essence, it means, I belong,” she says.