I'm not sure it's right to call some words "untranslatable" simply because we can't squish one word into an equally small space somewhere else, as though the number of letters involved is more important than the feeling of either. Like we shouldn't be as thoughtful to language as we ought to be while using it. It calms me to know that somewhere there is a word for everything that I am feeling. Likely even for that, recursive whorls of words about feelings about words. In a perfect world, at least.
But even if we knew them we couldn't remember them all, and so we enter these woods armed only with a handful of words and the faith of a child, believing that these are the tools that will get us through to the other side. Sometimes this looks like a path that leads straight to Chamfort, but in just the right light it appears that lightly and sweetly armed is truly the only way in.
I started my garden inside this year. Somehow the weeks left before everything comes up on its own just seemed too far.