LANGUAGE AND METAPHORS

Our awareness of self and the meanings we attribute to our experiences are all expressed and communicated through language. As our first language is non-verbal, we carry it with us as we develop our verbal language.

Michael Michalko (2012) states that creativity requires looking at the world in a different way. When we think metaphorically we utilize our ability to imagine. Our imagination is given expression through the non-verbal and verbal language of metaphors. The metaphor is "out there" to make it possible for us to sense and experience things in an unexpected way.

Metaphors permeate human thought and action. As such, becoming conscious of their use, and applying this language in a stimulating and meaningful way, will provide thinkers with the means to creatively express their thoughts, ideas and solutions to the problems being addressed.

One of my favorite metaphors is the bridge. Please enjoy Kafka’s The Bridge.

The Bridge

I was stiff and cold, I was a bridge, I lay over a ravine. My toes on on one side, my fingers clutching the other, I had clamped myself fast into the crumbling clay. The tails of my coat fluttered at my sides. Far below brawled the icy trout stream. No tourist strayed to this impassable height, the bridge was not yet traced on any map. So I lay and waited; I could only wait. Without falling, no bridge, once spanned, can cease to be a bridge. It was toward evening one day- was it the first, was it the thousandth? I cannot tell- my thoughts were always in confusion and perpetually moving in a circle. It was toward evening in summer, the roar of the stream had grown deeper, when I heard the sound of a human step! To me, to me. Straighten yourself, bridge, make ready, rail less beams, to hold up the passenger entrusted to you. If his steps are uncertain, steady them unobtrusively, but if he stumbles show what you are made of and like a mountain god hurl him across to land. He came, he tapped me with the iron point of his stick, then he lifted my coattails with it and put them in order upon me. He plunged the point of his stick into my bushy hair and let it lie there for a long time, forgetting me no doubt while he wildly gazed around him. But then – I was just following him in thought over mountain and valley – he jumped with both feet on the middle of my body. I shuddered with wild pain, not knowing what was happening. Who was it? A child? A dream? A wayfarer? A suicide? A tempter? A destroyer? And I turned so as to see him. A bridge to turn around! I had not yet turned quiet around when I already began to fall, I fell and in a moment I was torn and transpierced by the sharp rocks which had always gazed up at me so peacefully from the rushing water. 

Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir Written by

Franz Kafka