One of my favorite words in the English language is ‘serendipity’. Not because it’s fun to say, but because of it’s meaning. It lies somewhere between fate and luck. The definition for serendipity I liked the most—when I went to look it up—I found at Merriam-Webster and was “finding pleasant things one was not looking for”.
I’d describe a good portion of my life as being serendipitous.
I spent an evening once at the RPH—short for Ridgecrest Pub House—trying on inexpensive fedoras, homburgs and porkpies with a bar counter of strangers. There may have been a panama or bowler hat as well. I can’t be sure. Until I looked it up, I was oblivious there were so many types of men’s hats.
The bartender’s husband collected hats and she had a sack of them he had asked her to drop off at Goodwill. Lucky for us, she had them behind the bar. So, we spent time trying each of them on and then admiring, or casting aspersions, on our mirrored selves.
Just the other night I was out on the town with my significant other—and her very significant mom—(if you must know, attending the New York Dog Film Festival at the Crest Theater as a fundraiser for senior dogs) and I serendipitously encountered a sampling of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. It was on a small chalkboard above the bar at my treasured haunt—Ridgecrest Pub House.
The delicately chalked words were these:
Ringlorn
adj. the wish that the modern world felt as epic as the one depicted in old stories and folktales—a place of tragedy and transcendence, of oaths and omens and fates, where everyday life felt like a quest for glory, a mythic bond with an ancient past, or a battle for survival against a clear enemy, rather than an open-ended parlor game where all the rules are made up and the points don’t matter.
I had missed the adj. with my first reading and I imagined it was a quote from Lord of the Rings. Very Tolkienesque. When I realized it was a definition, I thought it was a definition for a word of which I was unfamiliar. I noted the attribution at the bottom—The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows—and I did what we all do, except when we are being stubborn or contrarian, and I searched for the explanation on the world wide web.
It turns out it’s a creative individual’s 12 years-in-the-making magnum opus. A book of words the author, John Koenig, conjured to express aspects, feelings, circumstances and situations for which there are no words at present in English. It’s due to be on your local bookstore’s bookshelves on the 16th of this month.
Eskimos have a hundred different words for the various types of snow. Scandinavians have a word to describe the feeling of comfort, security, contentedness and well-being you get from the ambiance of a candle-lit room. That word is hygge. Pronounced something like \HEW-guh\.
Some claim Shakespeare added almost 1700 words to the English language. This is disputed, though it is undisputed that his contributions were significant. You might be surprised at some of the words he coined.
Like “assassination”—Macbeth, Act I, Scene vii.
Or “bedazzled”—The Taming of the Shrew, Act IV, Scene v.
Or “newfangled”—Love's Labour's Lost, Act I, Scene i.
Shakespeare was prolific. And it would not surprise me if prolific was a contribution of his as well.
Every year, and for as long as I can remember, the New York Times, or some major media outlet, has printed made up words contributed by readers. Websites of imaginative words abound. I clicked on one with this gem—destinesia—meaning:
When you get to where you were intending to go, you forget why you were going there in the first place. As in—“You get off the sofa, go into the kitchen and say "darn, I got destinesia, I forgot what I came in here for.”
Who hasn’t experienced destinesia in the 21st century?
The German word schadenfreude—the pleasure one derives from the misfortune of others—has weaseled its way into many an American’s consciousness and vocabulary because we have ample opportunities to use it these days.
Because these are ringlorn times.
Because we are in a parlor game where rules no longer apply, or no one bothers to play by the rules, and whatever points you have accrued are meaningless.
Another manufactured word from this new ‘dictionary’ that I liked very much was lilo. Pronounced la-hy-loh. It captures the experience you have where no matter how long you’ve been apart from someone the minute you’re back together it’s as if no water has gone under the bridge at all. You pick up right where you left off. I experience this frequently.
Friendships, if they are truly friendships, are timeless.
The coined word aftersome (derived from the Swedish word eftersom—meaning ‘because’) tickled my curiosity as it described the sense one might have in which their life resembled the Gwyneth Paltrow movie, Sliding Doors, where there were a hundred tangents, dozens of paths not taken, a zillion different ways your life could have turned out—and yet it seemed fated all the time.
Author Koenig’s definition in full:
Aftersome
adj. astonished to think back on the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought you to where you are today—as if you’d spent years bouncing down a Plinko pegboard, passing through a million harmless decision points, any one of which might’ve changed everything—which makes your long and winding path feel fated from the start, yet so unlikely as to be virtually impossible.
I found the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrow’s definitions—at least the ones currently available pre-publication—satisfying because they were clever, lyrical or ruminative. Sometimes playfully tongue-in-cheek. Playfulness has been shorted in our modern times of political upheaval and system-wide societal angst.
Speaking of which, there must be a word for the feeling we are merely rearranging the deck chairs on a sinking ocean liner as the orchestra plays on.
I have not let down my guard as far as national politics is concerned. We need to stay engaged even though it seems the tide—fickle as it is—has turned against rule of law, common sense and pragmatism. If you are a woman and interested in politics, you might want to check this organization out.
Also, I hope—when all is said and done—Chef José Andrés is as much of a good guy as he seems. I really admire his tenacity, goodwill and optimism. These days we are always on edge waiting for a shoe to drop. I’m betting he’s the real deal. Here he has taken a $100 million contribution from the founder of Amazon (who, by the way, wouldn’t bother to stoop over to pick up a million dollars on the street) and built it into a billion dollar Climate Disaster Fund.
Right on, José.
We need a word for...that.
Bonsoir James,
Thanks for liking my comment.
We share the same love for the word serendipity and how il illumine nos vies, les éclaboussant de surprise et de joie :)
Enchantée de vous rencontrer sur cette communauté toute nouvelle pour moi.