Neither Here Nor There
"You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass . . ." --Seamus Heaney, "Postscript"
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Meaning and Grief: Two Insights from Heidegger
When we encounter a significant loss, it does something fundamental to our sense of identity. Our losses, like most experiences, are not merely occurrences that happen externally in the world. They are events which call for our response and understanding. And when they involve people and situations that we are connected with or invested heavily in, then the urgency of sorting through them impinges on us all the more. We live by our meanings, and when they are shaken by events of loss, we feel the challenge to our sense of identity.
But what is “meaning” anyway and how is it affected by grief? This is where the philosopher Martin Heidegger can help with a couple of insights, both drawn from his book, Being and Time. First, Heidegger has a unique understanding of personhood. The term he uses in the German is hard to translate into an equivalent English word, so translations keep the German original, which is Dasein. It means literally “being-there” (da-sein). We have our being as persons right “there” in the middle of our world, embedded in the circumstances of our lives. We are our unique relationships, habits, attitudes, family backgrounds, cultural identities, sense of possibilities, established meanings,and contingent experiences. We as individuals don’t have an essence which lies underneath our situated existence. We don’t have a dasein along with our sense of self. Rather, we are our existence; we are our dasein. We are always already a part of the world, embedded in the meanings of our lives. There is no essential me separated from my being in the world.
Now, this radical idea of the always already situated self has important implications for meaning and grief. We start with the meanings which we find and establish in our lives. These are often associated with our relationships. For example, I am a father, a spouse, a son, a brother, a co-worker, a neighbor, a homeowner, a citizen, etc. I understand and live all these relationships in terms of how meaningful I find and choose them to be. My sense of identity, of who I am, is tied up with the meanings I live, with the possibilities I choose and count on in relation to others in my world. In some ways, I become established in and learn to count upon my uniquely lived meanings: my combination of understandings, experiences, values, practices and relationships. In short, I live by my meanings. I take them in and they become who I am.
So in looking at grief, it is important to consider not simply feelings alone, nor simply an individual isolated from her or his everyday world, but at the meaningful patterns and people and values which we embrace and embody. For example, I would not be who I am if I were not a father to my particular daughters, a spouse with a unique history to my particular wife, and many other specific circumstances which I understand and live in the world. In a way, when things are going along relatively smoothly, I just assume my meanings as a part of who I am.
The challenge comes, however, when a significant loss happens. Then we are confronted with a breakdown in meaning, and we are confronted with something that impinges on our sense of who we are. There is a helpful analogy with Heidegger at this point. In talking about our everyday practices in the world, he uses the example of a hammer. A carpenter often uses a hammer without thinking too much about it as an object in and of itself. He is used to its weight and size, the measure of a good swing to drive a nail, the fit and feel of it in his hand. It is part of his everyday practice, and the hammer is like an extension of him as he works. When he uses the hammer, he doesn’t need to stop and examine it as an object. In fact, he could not do his work well if his focus was merely upon the hammer and not upon the work for which he was using it. Through practice and experience, he just assumes the hammer as part of his world. The meaning of the hammer is in the part it plays in his practice and life. But if the hammer breaks or goes missing, then all of a sudden, the hammer becomes the focal point and a concern in and of itself. The purposes for which he uses the hammer get frustrated and unfulfilled. In a sense, his world (of carpentry) has broken down.
In a similar way, a significant loss and the grief which inevitably follows it is like this. We often just assume the people and values and everyday practices and meanings in our lives as long as they are in place. It is who we are. But when the loss of a significant person occurs, our assumed meanings, and even our sense of self, breaks down. This causes a series of reactions and responses as we mourn what we have lost and look for ways to reconstruct a new sense of meaning around our changed lives. In a variety of ways, we begin to ask: "Who am I now?" One of the leading researches in the field of Bereavement Studies is Robert Neimeyer. He works with the “fundamental assumption that the attempt to reconstruct a world of meaning is the central process in the experience of grieving.” This task is often a messy, emotional affair, and it involves many considerations beyond this brief piece of writing. But the tentative framework of meaning and its loss which I’ve mentioned here is an important tool to help us when we are hurting and feeling the challenges of our grief.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Owning It: Nietzsche and the Ultimate Task of Grief
The greatest weight. – What if some day or night a demon were to
steal into your loneliest loneliness
and say to you: "This life as you now live it and have lived it you will
have to live once again and
innumerable times again; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh
and everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you, all in the same
succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this
moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over again and again, and you with it, speck of
dust!" Would you not throw
yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment
when you would have answered him: "You are a god, and never have I heard anything more
divine." If this thought gained power over you, as you are it would transform and possibly
crush you; the question in each and every thing, "Do you want this again and
innumerable times again?" would lie on your actions as the heaviest weight! Or how well disposed would
you have to become to yourself and to life to long for nothing more fervently than
for this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, 341
This is one formulation of Nietzsche’s famous thought experiment known as “the eternal return of the same.” He invites us to imagine the prospect of living our lives precisely as they are, with all that has happened and will happen to us, again and again forever. Every moment, no matter how small, and every event, no matter how painful, would be relived ceaselessly throughout time. Suppose someone, in this case a demon, offered us this choice? To relive our lives, to go through the exact same things, only to have “the eternal hourglass” turn over and start yet again. How would we respond? Would we choose it or run from it?
Now, Nietzsche’s point with this
experiment in thinking is not to convince us that life after death will
actually be some kind of repetitive cycle of our present living. Neither is it to get us to embrace in a glib
way the tragic and painful times of our lives as if they weren’t that bad after
all. We all have parts of our lives
which, if asked to choose to repeat them, we would recoil from. And we all have regrets about things we wish
we could do or undo. Nietzsche’s point,
however, is to get us to think of our lives in terms of their importance. What if this life is the place of value and
not some otherworldly destination? What
if this life and the way we live it carries ultimate weight because it is the
only one we will ever have? Nietzsche is trying to get us to look at our
lives with fresh eyes, to see this world in which we live as having supreme
importance—all our moments, all our passions, all our unexpected contingencies
and meaningful relationships and decisive actions and unforeseen tragedies. It all matters because it is this world, this
life, which is the only one we’ve been given.
One way of looking at Nietzsche’s
experiment is as an encouragement to own our lives, all our lives, as precisely
ours. No one else stands where each of
us stands; no one else experiences and feels precisely what each of us has
known. In a sense, life calls us to own
(up to) what happens to us. To integrate
it with our living because it is in some sense ours.
To own something can simply mean to
possess it or control it, or even to master it.
This is the strong sense of ownership and is not usually a helpful
approach to living. There is always more
going on with us than we can say or control, especially when it comes to loss
and grief, which we are coming to. But
there is another meaning of owning something which is helpful here, and this is
when we own something by acknowledging or admitting it. For example, someone may own (up to) his
guilt over an action or someone may own (up to) her responsibility for something. To own in this sense is to acknowledge or
admit something that is true or valid for us and which may have a claim on
us. We own it by acknowledging that in
some sense it is ours or is related to us, and this is the meaning I want to
emphasize.
When it comes to loss in our lives
and the grieving we do in response, owning what has happened to us and what is
happening with us is the ultimate task.
I don’t mean to say that owning our losses is somehow a facile or easy
or short-term gesture. It is not a
matter of simply giving cognitive assent to an event in our lives. We are deeply emotional beings, and even our
reason is emotionally saturated. When we grieve, our emotions are trying to
deal with the often overwhelming reality of our loss. At this moment, I am mindful of the horrific
tragedy in the Aurora movie theater in CO.
Those closest to that devastating loss will be working with their intense
emotional responses and owning what has happened to them for a long time and
even the rest of their lives.
William Worden, a teacher at Harvard
Medical School and one of the most respected writers in the field of
Bereavement Studies, has formulated the work of mourning in terms of four
tasks: to accept the reality of the
loss, to process the pain of grief, to adjust to a world without the deceased,
to find an enduring connection with the deceased in the midst of embarking on a
new life. What I mean by owning a loss
includes all these tasks. We don’t
always go through them in a neat linear fashion, nor do we emphasize them all
equally in our experience. Also, there
is no time limit. We can grieve
intensely for a few months, get hit by an anvil of emotion on a first or second
anniversary, and carry a sense of grief for someone into new contexts
throughout our lives (closure is a bad word for grief!). But these four tasks do point in the
direction of a kind of journey which each griever can make, a journey of owning
one’s loss and one’s life.
We can own our grief with tears and
memories, laments and laughter, anger and forgiveness. We can own our grief with memorials and
conversations and journaling and keepsakes.
We can own our grief by confronting our pain and working with it,
reminding ourselves of our loss whenever we need to, and accepting ourselves when
our reactions might feel intense and even a little crazy. In short, we can own our grief in any number
of unique, intense and even conflicting ways.
Whatever it takes to realize ever more deeply and transformatively the
actuality of what we’ve experienced. We can keep working on our lives to make them more authentically ours, like the Bill Murray character in Groundhog Day.
What keeps us from owning our loss
and grief? Nietzsche would remind us
that to emphasize another world beyond this one can devalue our lives and
actions here. Whatever we may think
about another world, it should not be used to distort the importance of this
one and the one life we are given here to lead.
Religious talk around loss such as “it is all part of God’s plan” is
surely one way to diminish the importance of how we live and what we go
through. When this happens, I as an
individual, with all my passions, choices, suffering, experiences and loves,
get subsumed and discounted by “eternal plan” talk. Let us own our losses for the full reality of
what they are and what they mean to us.
One other way to keep from owning our
loss and grief is to give ourselves over to distractions in order to avoid the
hurt and pain. I understand and feel
with those who are tempted by this tendency.
We’ve all been there standing at the precipice of our pain. The temptation is to cling rigidly to old
ways in denial, or to throw ourselves at a “soft” addiction like alcohol or
drugs or food or sex or anything else that becomes a consuming
distraction. Such a way of distracting
ourselves from what we’ve gone through and drifting along into the future keeps
us from owning our lives in an authentic way.
So, Nietzsche would press us, “do you
want your life?” Are you working with
the elements of the one life you’ve been given, even in your losses and
grieving? Or are you holding out for
different terms, which is no life at all?
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Valediction: Reflections on Grief
Valediction
Since you have left the house
Its emptiness has hurt
All thought. In your presence
Time rode easy, anchored
On a smile; but absence
Rocked love’s balance, unmoored
The days. They buck and bound
Across the calendar
Pitched from the quiet sound
Of your flower-tender
Voice. Need breaks on my strand;
You’ve gone, I am at sea.
Until you resume command
Self is in mutiny.
Lady with the frilled blouse
And simple tartan skirt,Since you have left the house
Its emptiness has hurt
All thought. In your presence
Time rode easy, anchored
On a smile; but absence
Rocked love’s balance, unmoored
The days. They buck and bound
Across the calendar
Pitched from the quiet sound
Of your flower-tender
Voice. Need breaks on my strand;
You’ve gone, I am at sea.
Until you resume command
Self is in mutiny.
This classic poem from Seamus Heaney
offers an insightful consideration of the way we encounter and react to the
loss of a loved one. It is a
“valediction,” literally a “saying farewell,” as when a student valedictorian
gives the farewell address at a graduation.
Heaney cleverly crafts this poem using a string of images associated
with sailing to depict the experience of grief when a loved one is lost. The poem begins, “Lady with the frilled
blouse and simple tartan skirt,” and right from the beginning we see that it is
addressed to her, to the one who has been lost.
The whole poem is a kind of plea, a kind of yearning expressed to
her. When we are reacting to loss, this
kind of yearning for the presence of the loved one can be a powerful emotion.[i] We long for the presence of the other, for a
living conversation which can restore what has been, but we cannot undo what
has happened and bring that person back like she was. So we often address the image of the one we
have lost, which we hold inside, in whatever way that loved one is remembered
by us, even if it is a “frilled blouse and simple tartan skirt.”
Heaney continues: “Since you have left the house/ Its emptiness
has hurt/ All thought.” But how can
thought hurt? Aren’t thinking and feeling
two different or separate things?
Several decades of recent brain research show this assumption to be
largely false.[ii] Even the most rational of thoughts carry
emotional associations, and emotions themselves can have their own kind of
logic. Consider how we remember events
and people. Most of the time, when we
are remembering something, we are not simply calling to mind neutral packets of
data or information. Our memories, our packets
of information, are often emotion-laden.[iii] We remember things by remembering how they
felt and how they make us feel, whether joyful or anxious or fearful or angry
or excited. In fact, what gives memories
their staying power within us is often the emotions with which we associate
them, and nowhere is emotion tied to thinking so clearly as when we
grieve. The poet looks at the empty
house after the loss of a loved one, and its emptiness hurts to think
about. The space which had once been
filled with the presence of another, of activities and familiar routines, of
conversations and comfort, of special moments and occasions, is now bare. It hurts to think about because the space now
serves to remind him of what is no longer available—a face, a certain gesture,
the tone of a voice, comforting arms, a certain fragrance, daily routines, idiosyncratic
moments, coordinated lives. What makes
loss so difficult is the simple yet profound fact that it hurts. It hurts to think about and be reminded of
all the spaces which two lives have shared, space which is now ripped open and
drained of the other’s presence. As two
writers on grief put it, “Life is details and grief wrenches them away. When death cuts away the details, in their
place it leaves not so much a void but the discernible weight of pain to fill
in the holes.”[iv] Thought hurts when it is confronted with
remembered spaces now lost.
Heaney then describes the felt
contrast between the loved one’s presence and absence: “In your presence/ Time rode easy/ Anchored
on a smile; but absence/ Rocked love’s balance, unmoored/ The days.” These lines are filled with sailing
images. He is remembering that the loved
one’s presence felt like easy sailing, smooth days of enjoyment, always with
her smile as an anchor to hold their lives together in place. But now her absence has rocked the balance
they shared like a ship which is tossed around and dangerously close to
capsizing. The patterns and routines of
their life together have now been lost, and he is unmoored and drifting through
the days. This marked contrast is often
felt by people when we grieve. We say
things like: “I just didn’t realize how good we had it.” Or, “I wish John was here, I just feel so
lost without him!” This is an honest
kind of reaction, a way to begin to express the felt dimensions of what has
happened to us. The yearning to cling to
a remembered past over against a painful present is a kind of survival
technique, a way of mitigating what can often feel overwhelming in the moment. This is okay, particularly when grieving is
at its most intense periods. Yet it can
also be a first step toward finding in the past those resources which will
enable us to give nuance to our memories of loved ones, to put them in a new
context, to find and create a new story of what has happened to us.
Nevertheless, grief can feel
tumultuous. Heaney continues: the days “buck and bound/ Across the
calendar.” Like a ship that is tossed
around by powerful forces of wind and wave which converge around it, so the
griever will feel emotions so powerful that they may scare him or her with
their intensity. And not only are they
intense; they can be volatile. We may
wonder at times if we are going a little crazy, feeling deeply sad at one
moment and angry or guilty the next.
These powerful and often conflicting emotions feel as if they slam into
us or wash across us with little control on our part, like a huge wave washes
across the deck of a ship. Part of what
sometimes keeps people stoic and tightly controlled in reaction to a loss can
be a fear of being seen as out of control.
We don’t want to feel the assumed shame of crying at an awkward moment
or blubbering in an “undignified” way.
But such moments are human, all too human, and they can be a natural
part of experiencing loss. We need one
or more affirming people with whom we can be our grieving selves without a
fearful sense of shame.
Heaney follows this with lines that
offer a striking image for the experience of loss: “Need breaks on my strand;/ You’ve gone, I am at sea.” A “strand” is a nautical term for a shoreline
or coastline, think stranded on a deserted island. The grieving words of the poet here suggest
the reality of being stranded, alone without the loved one. This is the painful reality he must confront,
and yet, his emotional need cannot seem to fully accept it. Just as waves break upon a stranded beach, so
his emotional waves keep breaking on the reality that he is alone. He wants the loved one back, feels the
intense need for her come in waves, and yet each time, they break upon the
reality that she is gone. The finality
strikes the shore of his life: “You’ve
gone.” This is the painful heart of
grief, and the process of grieving is saying this to ourselves, letting it
break upon the shore of our awareness, as many times as we need to realize it
and keep realizing it.
Finally the poem concludes: “Until you resume command/ Self is in
mutiny.” It is a plea for the loved
one’s return in the hope that order will be restored and the griever’s self
will no longer be in mutiny. Until that
happens, the self will feel chaotic and unmanageable. This kind of sentiment and yearning for the
return of the loved one and the restoration of life as it was before is
entirely understandable. It is the
self’s way of reacting to loss and handling the overwhelming feelings which
follow. But at some point, there comes
the realization that the griever cannot give “command” to a past that is no
longer possible anymore. The self’s
“mutiny” can then be seen as a kind of search for those elements and resources
within the self which will offer the possibility of change and even growth
through the process. The griever can
experience strange and even mutinous feelings toward her or his past and loved
one. This is not betrayal, but more like
a kind of testing of new parts of the self and new ways of approaching life
after loss. The griever can ultimately
ask, “who am I going to be now that this has happened to me?”[v]
[i]
Therese Rando, Grief, Dying, and Death:
Clinical Interventions for Caregivers (Champaign:
Research Press, 1984), 33-4, writes,
“There will be intense yearning, an aching and pining for
what has been taken
away. This is the single most
typical feature of grief.”
[ii] I
am thinking here particularly of the work of Antonio Damasio, Descartes’ Error: Emotion,
Reason, and the Human
Brain (New York: Putnam, 1994).
[iii]
Keith Ansell Pearson, How to Read
Nietzsche (New York: Norton & Co., 2005), 55, summarizes
Nietzsche’s
insight on memory with the following description: “Memory is not just a neutral
recollection of
events and things that have happened to us.
It is also bound up with our
affective or emotional life. The things of the past haunt us, have the potential to unsettle us,
and remind us of experiences we have forgotten and wish
to forget. Life is full of mummies,
ghosts and phantoms – a whole series of people and places that exist for us as
virtual objects.”
[iv]
Ron Marasco and Brian Shuff, About Grief:
Insights, Setbacks, Grace Notes, Taboos (Chicago:
Ivan R. Dee,
2010), 19.
[v]
Susan Berger, The Five Ways We Grieve (Boston: Trumpeter, 2009), writes, “As I
began collecting
the stories of more than sixty survivors of significant loss,
I started to see patterns. When people
experience the loss of a loved one, they
consciously or unconsciously develop a new identity
based on their changed
circumstances.” She draws from the work
of Dr. Robert Neimeyer,
whose recent efforts have been focused on the
importance of “meaning reconstruction in
response to loss.”
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Mortal Secrets
In my earliest memory, my grandfather is bald as a stone and he takes me to see the tigers.
So this wonderful and haunting book opens. Imagine a daughter who goes with her grandfather to the zoo every week. They observe and take delight in many animals, but the tigers take pride of place in their focus and conversation. The grandfather carries an old copy of The Jungle Book with him, and in fact, he carries it everywhere he goes, as if it holds secrets worth keeping. In a Balkan country that has seen so much war and devastation in the 20th century, a grandfather talks of tigers, of old stories which tread the border between reality and legend, of "the deathless man" and "the tiger's wife." A granddaughter, now a doctor like her grandfather had been, recounts life with her grandfather, the stories he told, the mystery of his death, and the strange people and events with which he lived as a boy growing up in a small village.
We meet intriguing and sometimes pathetic characters whose lives are wrapped in an impenetrable tangle of facts, events, gossip and local legend: the Apothecary, Luka the Butcher, a gypsy family digging for cursed bones, Darisa the hunter/bear, the Tiger's Wife and others. But winding through it all is the figure of the tiger, who lives in the strange, shifting space of fact and imagination. The tiger carries a sacred combination of strength and subtlety, of beastliness and beauty. And yet, like so many others, humans included, the tiger is mortal and subject to the vicissitudes of life, especially war. When the zoo is caught up in the bombing of the city, and all the animals experience brutal shock and trauma without being able to understand it, one tiger begins to chew his own legs off and gnaws at them until they are gone and his life is taken in necessity and mercy. This image captures the horrific consequences of war in an intensely powerful way because, as the author says, animals have a "biological honesty" which give their reactions a kind of primal innocense which humans don't often have.
My family has a kitten, and from the time my daughter brought her home, I have been smitten with "Kitty." A big part of the reason for this is because of the vulernability and honesty I feel from her. She does her best to understand a world that is often beyond her. She is subject at times to things she does not understand, things that overwhelm her, from vacuum cleaners to grooming offices. I feel that vulnerability in her, even if she does not realize it all. She lives by the honesty of instinct and learned prowess, but she is vulnerable, and something in me wants to protect her. It may even be true that I allow myself to feel with her something of my own sense of vulnerability. As I read this book, I felt a similar sense of vulnerability for the tigers and people portrayed in it.
It is a story is about the place and value of secrets, of revealing moments of experience which reflect the beauty and vulnerability of life with such intensity that they must be guarded, if possible, from misunderstanding and distortion. At one point, the grandfather takes his grandaughter downtown in the early morning hours before others have risen. He shows her the oddly amazing scene of an elephant being led down the street by a handler who is luring it on with a treat in his hand. The elephant is being taken to the local zoo before the town is peopled with morning business. The granddaughter remarks that she is eager to tell her friends all about this stranger occurence, but her grandfather urges her not to waste such a gift on them. Then he explains:
Eventually, my grandfather said: "You must understand, this is one of those moments."
"What moments?"
"One of those moments you keep to yourself," he said.
"What do you mean?" I said. "Why?"
"We're in a war," he said. "The story of this war--dates, names, who started it, why--that belongs to everyone. Not just the people involved in it, but the people who write newspapers, politicians thousands of miles away, people who've never even been here or heard of it before. But something like this--this is yours. It belongs only to you. And me. Only to us."
It is the kind of secret which reveals the value and intensity of life, and it is not easily shared, because such sharing leaves it vulnerable to misunderstanding and abuse. Such risk lies at the heart of every story told where the story both captures something meaningful and yet leaves out so much that is vital. Stories often hide mortal secrets by transmuting them into the common biases and dispositions of those who tell and hear them. We learn this truth again and again as the granddaughter traces the histories of the towns and people behind the stories she learned from her grandfather.
Eventually we learn about the town in which the grandfather grew up, with its cast of characters and transformative events. We learn of the secrets behind the stories, of what got lost and remains lost. We learn about the tiger's journey, the strange woman who came to be known as The Tiger's Wife, and the heartbreaking secrets which made up the vulnerable interactions of their lives in a town called Galina. The book's final sentences evoke the mortal secrets which make up their lives:
There is, however, and always has been, a place in Galina where the trees are thin, a wide space where the saplings have twisted away and light falls broken and dappled on the snow. There is a cave here, a large flat slab of stone where the sun is always cast, My grandfather's tiger lives there, in a glade where the winter does not go away. He is the hunter of stag and boar, a fighter of bears, a great source of confusion for the lynx, a rapt admirer of the colors of birds. He has forgotten the citadel, the nights of fire, his long and difficult journey to the mountain. Everything lies dead in his memory, except for the tiger's wife, for whom, on certain nights, he goes calling, making that note that falls and falls. The sound is lonely, and low, and no one hears it anymore.
That last line, the last one of the book, haunts me. The ache of something lost, of secrets which die with their holders, of special moments destined to be lost no matter how intense and transformative at the time. Our secrets, our most intense and vulnerable moments, are transferred into superstitions, gossip, stories, legends and myths. They are not only open to misunderstanding and distortion, they are also mortal and subject to the eventual passing away of all things.
The mortality of our lives and of our secrets is what haunts me. Those special moments which we alone know, or which we share with a few special others, die with us and get swept along until they are lost in the movement of history. It is a hard thing to consider that my moments with others, my deepest experiences of vulnerability and meaning with my family or friends, the highlights and lowlights of my life, will not be kept forever in some special place or eternal record. Do I have the courage to live with vitality and passion and sacrfice, knowing that the value of what I undergo and share will one day get lost in the haze of history as later generations move on? Can I live knowing that my secrets are mortal?
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The Sun as Gift
"Poverty kept me from thinking all was well under the sun and in history;
the sun taught me that history is not everything."
--Albert Camus, "Preface," Lyrical and Critical Essays
"The sea was gentle and warm, the sun fell lightly on their soaked heads, and the glory of the light filled their young bodies with a joy that made them cry out incessantly. They reigned over life and over the sea, and, like nobles certain that their riches were limitless, they heedlessly consumed the most gorgeous of this world's offerings."
--Albert Camus, The First Man (his semi-autobiographical novel about his poor childhood in Algeria)
Monday, April 2, 2012
A Door into the Dark
All I know is a door into the dark.
I am struck by this opening line from Seamus Heaney’s poem, “The Forge.” The image resonates with something deep within me. A door, a threshold, an entrance to a new place, yet a place without comforting orientation, a door-way which does not lead to the foreseeable but into darkness, the realm of something unknown, full of risk, threat, insecurity and potential revealing moments. I am drawn to this image of the darkened doorway even as I feel ambivalent toward it. It evokes the lure of something primal, something truthful emerging in the dark places of my life, a collision of mystery and meaning. It suggests the possibility of something important to gain or lose, of walking into an unsafe and unsure place, which may be costly, and yet, also somehow worth the step. Here is the poem in full:
I am struck by this opening line from Seamus Heaney’s poem, “The Forge.” The image resonates with something deep within me. A door, a threshold, an entrance to a new place, yet a place without comforting orientation, a door-way which does not lead to the foreseeable but into darkness, the realm of something unknown, full of risk, threat, insecurity and potential revealing moments. I am drawn to this image of the darkened doorway even as I feel ambivalent toward it. It evokes the lure of something primal, something truthful emerging in the dark places of my life, a collision of mystery and meaning. It suggests the possibility of something important to gain or lose, of walking into an unsafe and unsure place, which may be costly, and yet, also somehow worth the step. Here is the poem in full:
All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops
rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s
short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in
water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the
centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end
square,
Set there immovable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and
music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in
his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a
clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in
rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam
and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the
bellows.
The door into the dark leads to the
workshop of the “forge” or “smithy” (or blacksmith, more popularly), one of the
oldest processes for shaping metal. Some
think Heaney is using this extended reflection on the forge to evoke something
of the writer’s creative craft, perhaps even his own. For me, this poem suggests something about
the search for creative authenticity in each person, perhaps even my own.
“Outside,” where the history of what
has been made and done and lived lies on the ground in the form of “old axles
and iron hoops rusting,” forms of things which have outlived their usefulness
are scattered around. They once served
life well, but now take up extra room and await the destiny of metal scraps—to be
lost forever or broken down and re-formed for a new purpose. “Inside,” one hears the “short-pitched ring”
of hammer on anvil as the forge pounds out new shapes. It is hard work, breaking down hardened edges
“to beat real iron out,” working with powerful forces of heat and compression,
setting new forms in place “when a new shoe toughens in water.” It would be easy to get burned, and the “unpredictable
fantail of sparks” is a fiery reminder that consequences from this effort are
not easily foreseen.
In an important way, one must own
this “inside” work, not worried foremost about the perceptions of others. The forge, “leather-aproned, hairs in nose,”
has a kind of toughness for the necessary work and a rough disdain for the games
of refined expectation and societal posture.
He takes a break at one point, “leans out on the jamb” to notice the
larger society “where traffic is flashing in rows,” then “grunts and goes in”
where he continues the important work of his life.
Not seen from the outside, the anvil
resides in the dark and “must be somewhere in the centre.” It is both central and “immovable” in the
creative work that takes place. There is
a firm face to the anvil on which the forge depends in order to get through
hard work. Here, at the very creative
center, the anvil is “at one end square,” with logical right angles and the
reasoning of geometry. Yet the other
side is “horned as a unicorn,” evoking that mythical beast of history which
points to magic, inner purity, and the sacred.
The anvil, by it very shape, brings together logic and magic, reason and
the sacred. It is “an altar,” a place of
creative encounter and change, where the forge “expends himself in shape and
music.” Here is the transformative space
at the heart of authentic creation. To
get there, one must enter a “door into the dark.”
Monday, December 5, 2011
My Choices, My Projects, My Life
“I start out
on a hike with friends.”[i] This is how the French philosopher, Jean Paul
Sartre, begins a particularly intriguing example. After several hours of walking together, his
fatigue builds and, after resisting it initially, he throws down his knapsack
by the side of the road and plops down beside it, letting the others know that
he has given up.
Someone
will reproach me for my act and will mean
thereby that I was free—that is, not
only was my act not
determined by any thing or
person, but also I could have
succeeded in resisting
my fatigue longer. I could have
done as
my companions did and reached the resting place
before relaxing. I shall defend myself
by saying that I was
too tired. Who is
right?
Now of
course he could have acted differently and gone on with his hiking companions,
but Sartre contends, this does not get to the heart of the issue. Instead, he asks whether he could have acted
differently without changing the network of fundamental projects which make up
his being-in-the-world. I’ll explain.
Consider
Sartre and his friends hiking together.
At some point Sartre gives in and quits because of his fatigue. Now, assuming that they are all roughly in
the same shape and feeling a similar amount of fatigue, what accounts for the
difference between his actions and those of his friends? Why do his friends want to go on? The fatigue cannot be a reason in and of
itself, because he and his friends are feeling many things as they journey
along, and fatigue is only one background element in their awareness as their
bodies interact with the surroundings.
There are other elements and different motivations which each hiker
carries, and these affect how they will respond to their fatigue. As Sartre asks, “How does it happen therefore
that they suffer their fatigue differently?”
Their choice to go on seems to be part of a larger perspective which
they have embraced.
Imagine,
Sartre continues, that one of his companions explains why he wants to go
on. He readily admits fatigue, but
emphasizes that he loves to give himself over to it, to feel it as part of the
way he encounters and discovers the world around him, to know the reality of
rocky paths and steep slopes, of sun on the back of his neck and strength in
his legs. His fatigue is part of his
passion for a larger project he has chosen and is now motivated by. It is a way of engaging the world more fully
and giving himself over to it with a kind of trusting abandon. “It is only in and through this project that
the fatigue will be able to be understood and that it will have meaning for
him.”
So the
difference between Sartre and his hiking companions is between the kinds of
projects they have chosen for their lives and the motivations connected with
them. Sartre did not want to go on
because he experienced his fatigue in relation to a different set of chosen
projects, ones not associated with pushing himself on a hike.
Now I don’t
want to pursue it further in detail here, but Sartre goes on to emphasize that
all our projects are part of a fundamental way we choose to live in the world,
and that we have some measure of freedom to make such choices in the face of the
contingencies which inevitably surround us.
What I am
interested in is thinking about our lives in terms of projects, which are always a mixture of what we embrace or find ourselves in or feel confidence toward. Some of these may be relatively small and
temporary, while others are profound and sustaining. But all of them form the basis of our living,
our ethical choices and our identities.
Bernard Williams, for example, writes that our projects involve:
The
obvious kind of desire for things for oneself, one’s
family, one’s friends,
including basic necessities
of life,
and in more relaxed circumstances, objects of taste. Or
there may be pursuits or interests of an intellectual,
cultural or creative
character. . . . Beyond these, someone
may have projects connected with his support of some
cause. . .
. Or there may be projects which flow from
some more general disposition towards human
conduct
Such
projects are primary in accounting for our lives, because there are no other
“deeper” reasons for what we do. My
projects and the commitments associated with them have a primacy because they
shape my character, comprise my sense of self, and give me reasons to live.
Quite
simply, if perhaps somewhat melodramatically,
projects confer meaning, or at
least
represent a necessary
condition for the possibility of a meaningful
life: no
Now, all of
this philosophical description is a long entrance into the place where I find
myself these days. I have some stable
projects in my life, to be sure, especially around family and friendships, but
my sense of work and vocation, my fundamental projects about the kind of work I
do, is now up in the air. For twelve
years, I have engaged in a project called “pastor of Twinbrook Baptist
Church.” A lot of my choices and
motivations over this time were associated with this fundamental project. Even more, for most of my adult years before
that, I engaged in projects which have constituted my sense of religious
calling and training. Now that my recent
twelve year project is over, and I’m feeling uncertain about the resilience of my
earlier projects, I am struggling with the affects and changes. All the usual motivations and choices
(whether or not to go on with the hike) are getting reshuffled. It makes for uneven days and uneasy feelings.
The challenge,
as I see it, is twofold: to find a fundamental
project which both resonates with me and which is doable in the present state
of things. It should resonate with me in
the sense that it connects with my own inner sense of interest, motivation and
values. This is not about selfishness;
it is about finding a place where I can give of myself and find some pleasure
and satisfaction in doing so. Yet it
should also be doable in that I have to find a place of work in the limits of our
present economy. I cannot just pick out the
terms of a project and slide into it. I
must see what’s out there, consider my options, allow myself to encounter the unexpected and go through a process of
achieving a position. These two
conditions, self-interest and economic viability, will almost certainly be in
tension with one another. I may need to
compromise in one or both areas. But this
felt need also connects to another fundamental project of mine, my family and its
support. So I will continue these days
to roam through the shifting boundaries of my projects and choices. As my projects go, so does my life.
[i]
Jean Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness,
trans. Hazel E. Barnes (New York: Gramercy Books, 1956), 453. Sartre’s
example of fatigue and subsequent discussion can be found on pages 453-59.
[ii]
Bernard Williams, “A Critique of Utilitarianism,” in Utilitarianism: For and Against (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1973), 110-11, as quoted by Mark P.
Jenkins, Bernard Williams (Montreal:
McGill-Queen’s Univ. Press, 2006), 33.
[iii] Jenkins,
33.
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