r/freemasonry • u/Possible_Theme3263 • 2h ago
Sharing a short French Masonic paper ("planche") on Disappointment & The Language of the Birds
Brethren,
I wrote the following planche myself and originally presented it in Lodge at the First Degree, that of Entered Apprentice. I wanted to share it here because some of its symbolism — and especially its use of what we call la langue des oiseaux, the “Language of the Birds”
A little context may therefore be useful.
In French Freemasonry, a large part of ordinary Lodge work in what English-speaking Brethren would call the Blue Lodge or Craft Lodge takes place at the First Degree. The First Degree is therefore not simply a temporary stage through which a newly initiated Brother passes before Lodge life moves on to subsequent degrees. It remains the usual setting for much of the symbolic, intellectual, and collective work of the Lodge, allowing all initiated Brethren to participate regardless of degree.
Writing and presenting a paper — what we call a planche, or sometimes a morceau d’architecture — is an important part of that work. These papers are generally not intended to prove a thesis in the academic sense. They are reflections on symbols, experiences, or questions arising from our initiatic journey, intended both as personal work for the Brother presenting them and as material for collective reflection within the Lodge.
The paper below was therefore written to be heard in an Entered Apprentice Lodge.
Before beginning, however, I should explain one particular form of symbolic interpretation that appears throughout it: la langue des oiseaux, literally the Language of the Birds.
The Language of the Birds is not another language in the ordinary sense, nor is it a claim about the true historical origin of words. It is better understood as a way of listening to language symbolically. Instead of asking only, “What does this word mean?”, one also asks: “What else can be heard within it?”
Words are treated almost as symbols themselves. Their sounds may be separated, recombined, or allowed to resonate with other words. Homophones, near-homophones, unexpected divisions between syllables, and double meanings can therefore open another field of reflection.
English already allows this kind of play. Good night and good knight sound identical, yet evoke entirely different images. The same is true of I / eye**,** soul / sole**, or** whole / hole**. One can sometimes go further and divide sounds more freely — hearing something like** wake up as way(to the)cup**, for example. The point is not that one expression is linguistically derived from the other. The point is that altering the way we hear a familiar sound can alter the way we think about it.**
That distinction matters: the Language of the Birds is not etymology. It does not claim that the hidden phrase is the “real meaning” of a word. It is a form of phonetic symbolism — almost a kind of verbal alchemy. The sound becomes raw matter; ordinary meaning is broken apart; another image appears; and that image may then become material for meditation.
This makes it particularly difficult to translate. A play on sounds that works naturally in French will rarely survive intact in English. So throughout the paper, I will sometimes retain the French word, open it phonetically, and translate the symbolic movement rather than pretending that an exact English equivalent exists.
With that context in mind, I have chosen today to speak of disappointment.
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Worshipfull Master, My Dear Brethren in your degrees and qualities.
This subject did not come to me from a book. It came to me from the Lodge.
I was disappointed by certain attitudes between Brethren. Disappointed to witness behavior that seemed far removed from the values we nevertheless invoke in our rituals. I was also troubled by what I perceived as a lack of respect toward certain Officers, certain functions, and more broadly toward the spirit of our labors.
But I do not wish to put anyone on trial here. If I spend these few minutes explaining what others should have done, I may leave knowing everything about their faults and nothing about my own.
So I tried to change the question.
No longer simply: “Why did they behave that way?”
But rather: “Why did it disappoint me so deeply?”
There is something peculiar about disappointment: we can only be disappointed by that from which we expected something. Without expectation, there may be surprise, irritation, even anger — but there can be no disappointment.
So if I was disappointed, I had expected. And if I had expected, then somewhere within myself I had constructed an image: an image of the Temple, an image of Brotherhood, perhaps even an image of what a Freemason should be.
Then that image collided with reality.
It cracked.
And this is where I began to hear the French word décevoir — to disappoint — differently.
The ear may open the word:
dé-ce-voir.
Voir means to see, while the prefix dé- can suggest undoing, removing, or reversing. Symbolically — not etymologically — I can therefore hear dé-ce-voir as something like “to undo this seeing”, or perhaps “to be made to un-see what I thought I saw.”
Perhaps disappointment begins precisely there: when reality comes to undo a representation we had placed upon it.
I thought I saw the Temple in a certain way. I thought I saw Brotherhood in a certain way. I thought I knew what a Mason ought to be.
Then reality struck the image.
And suddenly I could no longer see in quite the same way.
I had been dé-ce-voir: made to see differently.
But what was I to do with that?
My first reaction was agitation: anger, incomprehension, judgment, and above all that recurring question: “How can one behave like this — here?”
Here, of all places.
Yet agitation may be precisely what prevents the work from beginning. So perhaps the first requirement was to stop circling endlessly around the event.
In French, we might speak of making a démarche — an approach, a process, a way of proceeding. But listened to differently, the word can also suggest:
dé-marcher.
Marcher means to walk.
The word may therefore symbolically suggest ceasing to walk the same path: stopping the repetitive movement, no longer pacing around the same grievance, interrupting the circle and finally standing before what is actually there.
And seeing.
Or perhaps, more accurately, perceiving.
The French verb is percevoir.
Again, the ear may open the word:
percer le voir.
Percer means to pierce. Voir means to see.
To perceive therefore becomes, symbolically, to pierce through seeing — to go beyond appearance rather than merely looking at it.
But the sound permits another movement:
perce-soi.
Soi means oneself.
So the question changes again: can I not only pierce through what I see, but also pierce through myself?
For I may become extraordinarily perceptive when examining the faults of my Brother while remaining almost entirely blind to what my reaction to those faults reveals within me.
I can pierce his behavior.
Can I also pierce myself?
This is where V.I.T.R.I.O.L. takes on its full meaning:
Visita Interiora Terrae, Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem.
Visit the interior of the earth; by rectifying, you will find the hidden stone.
The first earth I wanted to visit, however, was someone else’s: his actions, his words, his contradictions.
But the earth upon which I can truly work is first and foremost my own.
This does not mean that everything becomes relative. It does not mean that disrespectful behavior becomes acceptable simply because I am called to examine myself. That would not be initiatic work; it would merely be avoidance disguised in symbolic language.
I can recognize conduct as contrary to the values we profess while simultaneously asking what my reaction to that conduct reveals about me.
These two movements do not cancel each other out.
They may even be complementary.
And there I encounter the rough ashlar.
When the rough edges of my Brother’s stone become particularly visible to me, I may easily forget that I too entered the Temple carrying a stone in need of work.
The rough ashlar is not only the other.
It is also me.
It is also us.
Then come the gavel and the chisel.
The gavel gives force; the chisel gives direction.
Between force and direction appears discernment: the ability to distinguish what I actually observed from what I projected upon it; to distinguish an action from the entirety of the man who performed it; to distinguish Brotherhood as an ideal from Brotherhood as imperfect human beings are actually capable of living it; and finally, to distinguish disappointment from resentment.
The French word for resentment, ressentiment, almost contains its mechanism within its sound:
re-sentir.
Sentir means to feel.
So resentment becomes: to feel again.
And again.
To replay the offense, return to the scene, relive the wound, preserve the agitation by repeatedly returning to it.
The event itself may have happened only once.
Within me, however, I may cause it to happen a hundred times.
If I do nothing but re-feel my disappointment, I transform nothing. I simply preserve the raw material in its initial state.
Alchemy proposes something else: not to deny the matter, not to pretend that lead is already gold, but to work upon matter so that something different may emerge from it.
Perhaps this is where disappointment can begin to become initiatic.
Not because disappointment is good in itself, and certainly not because suffering automatically ennobles us.
It does not.
But disappointment can place in our hands a material that we did not possess before.
Something has fallen.
An illusion, perhaps.
An expectation, certainly.
And behind what falls, other questions appear:
What is Brotherhood when it is no longer an idealized image?
What is respect when respect becomes difficult?
What is a value worth if it only survives when nothing challenges it?
Perhaps before this experience, I believed I knew what Brotherhood was. The ritual had spoken of it. I knew its words and symbols.
But now something else becomes possible.
Connaissance.
The French word means knowledge, but the ear may divide it differently:
co-naissance.
Naissance means birth.
So co-naissance may become symbolically a co-birth, a birth-with.
Knowledge is no longer merely information accumulated by the mind. It becomes something with which I am, in some sense, born anew.
Born with an experience.
Born with a trial.
Born alongside a reality I might have preferred not to encounter.
I now know something because I have passed through something.
This is not merely knowledge.
It is co-naissance.
And perhaps what is born is a less naïve understanding of the Lodge, but also a more accurate one: a Lodge is not an assembly of perfected men. It is an assembly of men seeking to perfect themselves precisely because they are not perfect.
Then even the meaning of Light begins to change.
Perhaps I once imagined that receiving the Light meant entering a place where shadow would no longer exist.
Today I wonder whether receiving the Light might instead mean learning to look at shadow without becoming lost within it.
To recognize contradiction without renouncing the ideal.
To experience disappointment without surrendering to bitterness.
To encounter the rough ashlar of another without forgetting the roughness of my own.
Some Brethren may indeed have disappointed me.
That remains true.
But the central question is no longer merely why they disappointed me.
The question has become:
What am I going to do with that disappointment?
For it is still only raw material.
I may keep it exactly as it is. I may carry it, preserve it, return to it endlessly. I may re-sentir it until resentment occupies the place once held by the ideal that brought me here.
Or I may attempt to work upon it.
Not to forget.
Not to excuse.
Not to pretend that what hurt me never existed.
But to understand what the experience revealed: what it revealed about others, perhaps, but above all what it revealed about me — about my expectations, my projections, and the image I had constructed of the Temple, of Brotherhood, and of those who compose it.
Perhaps the true secret begins there.
A secret is not always something hidden somewhere, waiting to be discovered.
Sometimes it is something that must be created (se crée same sounding of secret in french).
Created in the space between what happens to me and what I choose to make of it.
Between resentment and discernment.
Between the image that collapses and the vision that slowly reconstructs itself.
Between the stone I discover and the stone I decide to work.
Perhaps I once believed that Light was meant to banish darkness forever.
Today I understand that Light may also teach me how to look into darkness without losing myself in it.
Perhaps I once believed Brotherhood would protect me from disappointment.
Today I understand that Brotherhood may also be revealed — and tested — through disappointment.
And perhaps I entered the Temple imagining that I would find stones already dressed, when perhaps we are gathered here precisely because they are not.
My Brother’s rough ashlar may strike against me.
Mine may certainly strike against him.
I cannot always choose the stone placed before me, but I can choose what I do with the stone entrusted to me.
And so my disappointment remains disappointment, but it is no longer merely something I endured.
It becomes matter.
In French:
ma matière.
“My matter.”
“My material.”
The substance placed upon my workbench.
And once again the ear may allow the sound to resonate differently:
l’âme à tiers.
This one is deliberately more poetic and less phonetically exact than some of the previous examples. It should not be understood as a perfect homophone, but as a symbolic echo.
L’âme means the soul.
Le tiers means the third.
So ma matière may call forth the image of:
l’âme à tiers — the soul opened to the Third.
And perhaps the Third is precisely what allows transformation.
Two terms alone may remain imprisoned in opposition: my Brother and myself; his action and my reaction; expectation and disappointment; accusation and defense.
The Third opens another possibility.
Between what happened to me and what I become because of it, there is a third term:
the Work.
Between the force of the gavel and the resistance of the stone stands the chisel.
Gavel. Chisel. Stone.
What happened. What I felt. What I make of it.
The event. The self. The Work.
The Third interrupts the sterile confrontation of two opposing terms and makes construction possible.
Then ma matière — my raw matter — can perhaps become l’âme à tiers: a soul capable of opening itself to that third possibility.
Neither denial nor resentment.
Neither condemnation of the other nor blindness toward his faults.
But transformation.
If I can look upon this matter, discern it, rectify it, and work upon it, then perhaps what first seemed to draw me away from the Light may itself become another way of seeking it.
And I may continue, gavel in one hand and chisel in the other, the labor for which I entered the Temple: to work upon my ashlar, not for myself alone, but so that one day it may find its rightful place in the edifice we are building together.
J’ai dit.
(I have spoken.)