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Key points
- Words influence how we see the world.
- Expanding language can shift our mindset.
- Lacunae, gaps in language, reveal what we overlook.
I have an idea for a class that I think should be offered in every school. This is a bold claim, I know, but I’m going to stand by it. The class I’m proposing is a foreign language class, but not just one foreign language—it’s tons of them. The idea would be to learn words from all different languages that lack an English equivalent. These words would fill the gaps in our language, offering insight into what other cultures have noticed that we may have overlooked.
This idea was the inspiration behind the podcast I co-host with Emily John Garces called Fifty Words for Snow. The phrase references the idea that Inuit languages have multiple words for snow, each capturing a different nuance of this natural phenomenon. After all, when snow is everywhere all the time, you need a bunch of different ways to talk about it. “Hey, Pipaluk, check out this cool fluffy stuff falling from the sky” just doesn’t cut it after the tenth blizzard.
As Franz Boas, the anthropologist who studied the Inuit, pointed out, language is more than just a tool for communication—it shapes how we think and experience the world. His work eventually led to the concept known as linguistic relativity, or the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which is a fancy way of saying that the structure of a language influences its speakers’ worldview.
So, yes, the Inuit have a ton of words for snow, but the principle applies universally. The more words we have for something, the more attention we pay to it, and the more detailed our understanding becomes. By expanding our vocabulary, especially with words that don’t exist in English, we expand our capacity to notice and appreciate the world around us.
In my podcast, Emily and I explore these linguistic gaps, or “lacunae,” and the words that could fill them. Here are a few we've found that I especially like.
Niksen (Dutch): The Art of Doing Nothing
In our world, where productivity is often the highest virtue, the idea of doing nothing can seem almost shameful. We are conditioned to feel guilty if we aren't constantly checking off to-do lists, reaching goals, or maximizing every moment. But in Dutch culture, niksen offers a different perspective. It is the art of doing nothing without guilt—of simply existing in a state of rest, allowing the mind and body to reset.
Shoshin (Japanese): A Beginner’s Mind
In the West, we place a premium on expertise and mastery. We look to specialists to guide us and tend to value efficiency over curiosity. But the Japanese concept of shoshin, or beginner’s mind, encourages us to approach life with fresh eyes. It’s a call to let go of preconceptions, to remain open and curious, even when we think we know the answers. It’s a powerful reminder that expertise can sometimes close us off to the joy of discovery.
Haʻahaʻa (Hawaiian): Humility Through Interdependence
In a society that often celebrates individual achievement above all else, the Hawaiian word haʻahaʻa offers a profound contrast. This form of humility arises from a deep awareness of our interdependence. In Hawaiian culture, it is understood that no one achieves anything alone—we are all interconnected, reliant on both people and the land. To practice haʻahaʻa is to recognize that we are not solitary heroes, but part of a greater whole. It’s a lesson in humility that gently pushes back against the Western ideal of rugged individualism.
These words have become more than vocabulary additions for me. They’ve made me think differently. Just a little bit. Language, after all, shapes the way we see the world.
Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein encapsulated this perfectly when he said, "The limits of my language are the limits of my world." Without words for certain concepts, they can remain invisible or under-appreciated. Language doesn’t just help us describe reality—it helps us see it. By learning the untranslatable, we might just learn to live a little differently.
And who knows? Maybe one day, we’ll even have a word for that feeling when you are trying to weave a neat conclusion from all the ideas you’ve scattered in an article. For now, consider this more of a patchwork ending—a few pieces tied together with hope and a little haʻahaʻa.
