Dictionary Dives

My first year of college, I took a writing course with a professor who ran his class more like a boot-camp from hell rather than a university lecture hall. 

The Writing Sergeant with his booming voice, and large frame, commanded attention; he towered over us freshmen, always wore a black suit with a striking red tie, along with a permanent furrowed brow, which sat firmly on top of his thick-rimmed glasses and beady but seemingly unblinking eyes. I don’t think I ever heard him laugh.

Expectations were clear from the start. Be punctual. Class began at 8:00 am. So if you showed up at 8:00 am, you were late. Tough luck. Either you were locked out, or kicked out, and marked absent. No laptops or cell phones allowed, or you were also kicked out. Silence was golden. The room was always quiet unless you were expected to speak, which you weren’t. He demanded work be completed in a particular way, his way, and failure to do so resulted in a zero. No late assignments ever.

Each class, we were expected to bring, and stack neatly on the left side of our desks, the following: a classic black and white composition notebook, a No. 2 pencil, a black pen, a red pen, our workbook, copies of Study is Hard Work and Rules for Writers, but most importantly, Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus. 

So every morning, I lugged that brick of a book under my noodle arm or stowed it away in my backpack, while I trekked across campus, weighed down by lexical annoyance. At first, I didn’t get it. Why a dictionary?! Nobody used those archaic artifacts anymore. What was the point when we had the internet? Initially, it felt like an irritating inconvenience brought on by a power-tripping professor.

But that wasn’t the case. He was adamant about us taking ownership over our education, even with something as simple as words we didn’t know because he cared. He taught us that effort and taking time to deliberately fill gaps of knowledge mattered. It still does. In fact, I keep that exact dictionary from over a decade ago, on my desk, and use it often. Certainly, a Google search would be more efficient than the time-consuming page turns of a physical dictionary, but that’s the point. 

A dictionary in your hands is the beginning of a slow and physical exploration that creates an immersive learning experience.

In the search for a definition, my eyes and fingers scan through words, meanings, and information I wouldn’t otherwise come across. The physical nature of a dictionary propels me down rabbit holes and I learn more than just basic definitions through this slow and physical journey.

Take the word serendipity.

First, I crack my dictionary open, and browse through endless pages until I get to the “S” section on page 709. Seeing actual ink printed on paper, and noticing the depth of black contrasted between bold and unbolded text makes my pupils dilate. For whatever reason, text doesn’t feel this gratifying or engaging on a computer screen. The pixels feel less alive. 

I continue flipping through the S-words. On the way to serendipity’s meaning, I stumble past sensitive. I stop. I already know this word, but I wonder what the definition might say. I expect to see it defined along the lines of “being delicate,” or something weak-sounding like that, but I’m wrong. It starts with, “Subject to excitation by or responsive stimuli,” however, it’s the second definition that grabs me. 

As it turns out, it can be defined as having power of feeling. Seeing “power” in its definition catches me off guard. I pause in appreciation. Even though I feel being sensitive is a power, I’ve never actually seen it officially defined with that word. This association completely reframes what it means to me. Suddenly, it feels more empowering in an official way. This moment of serendipity leaves me feeling validated. I didn’t expect this to happen.

I keep searching for serendipity, turning one page at a time. Moving slowly, and thoughtfully, forces me to graze the lay of this linguistic land. I not only visit familiar words like sensitive, I encounter new words that captivate my curiosity, and satiate the student in me. When I see unfamiliar words, I’m compelled to stop and explore them. I end up sifting through many meanings. It’s fun. 

I take my time. Minutes go by, but I don’t care. I love being grounded in the physical world through tiny tactile experiences like this. And flipping through the thin white pages of a dictionary scratches that itch. 

I adore the weight of a thick book in my hands, the almost-rhythmic hushed sounds of the crisp but smooth pages, rustling each time I turn them, and the sensation of my finger gently gliding up and down the columns of words while skimming horizontally through definitions I never planned on looking up. 

This kinesthetic journey leads me to words like sepulchral and seraph. Seduced by phonetics and mystery, I linger and learn. Sepulchral means, “relating to burial or the grave” and a seraph is, “one of the 6-winged angels standing in the presence of God.” 

So now, I’m thinking about the power of feelings, graves, and angels. This association sends shivers in my mind. My brain turns these words to images. I pause to enjoy them. I love it. 

And while, going through the dictionary takes time, I’m learning more by slowing down and choosing to follow my curiosity, and embrace the serendipitous dimension of this exploration. It’s enchanting. And because this learning doesn’t take place on a computer, it’s easier to focus.

Eventually, I do land on serendipity and see: [fr. its possession by the heroes of the Persian fairy tale The Three Princes of Serendip]: the gift of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for. This too takes me on a journey.

Meanwhile, my experience of searching online is different. When I click open my browser and search, I get the definition: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

That’s it. It gets the job done quickly. But I’m less fulfilled. Zero exploration. I can click, “More Definitions,” but the speed and ease of this journey doesn’t propel my curiosity to keep going, I don’t feel physically grounded, and there’s no serendipity in this process. I do get a “similar” word list: chance, accident, fluke. But this does nothing for me. And now I’m just tempted to check my email. Cue internet distractions. 

And so, maybe most of the time, a quick Google search makes the most sense. I agree. And speed is tempting. But there will always be something particularly pleasing to me about savoring a slower search when what is easy is always available to me. My professor might have been overwhelmingly sergeant-like, but because he forced his old-school approach onto us, I’ve since gained an appreciation for the art of using a dictionary and a love for the tactile process.

Because this slow dance with words in a physical dictionary is not just oddly meditative, it’s an immersive learning experience. And there’s truly a joy and fulfillment to sometimes opting out of efficiency and intentionally slowing down.

---

Hi! Thank you for reading Dictionary Dives. If anything resonated with you, let me know! You can leave a like, and a comment.

Let me know what’s on your mind!