Must We Be “Some”-Body?

I’M NOBODY by Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –

To an admiring Bog!

********************

It is very challenging to be a “Nobody” as the Emily Dickinson poem shares with us.  Becoming a “nobody” is one of life’s greatest challenges as we are hardwired from birth on to find our place in the world though that doesn’t eliminated our desire to be “Somebody,” even if only vicariously through a cultural or political leader who vicariously satisfies that need of ours.

Dickinson knew that pursuit of this goal means prostituting ourselves to that “admiring bog,” those people “out there” who we early-on learned we must be likened unto.  Rene Girard and James Alison have powerfully offered us the notion of “mimetic engulfment” in which humans are taught to be a slave to “sameness” and therefore the need to fit in.  And “fitting-in” is part of being human but not when it is pursued so much that we completely forgo any impulse to find a vestige of autonomy as we participate in a social body.  It is the absence of personal autonomy that can turn a social body into a tyranny, an organized madness which will always find itself a voice to articulate its rage.

Notice that Dickinson described those masses whose attention we often seek to an “admiring bog,” before we often spend our life croaking like a frog. I’ve listened to movie stars and other famous people lament their realization that their loving and admiring fans often see them only as puppets of some sort, on the stage only to sing, dance, and perform for their mindless amusement.

The Unintended Consequences of Safety

“We have made for ourselves a life safer than we can bear,” said W. H. Auden.  Life is a risky business and being human we have to deal with the competing needs for safety and risk, “risk” often being necessary when change is called for.  My clinical practice often addressed clients who were “making themselves a life safer than they could bear” or the other extreme, risk-taking run amok.  Those who were facing the challenges of too much “safety” usually involved cognitive behavioral therapy, my clinical task being to bring attention to maladaptive thinking patterns that had left them entrapped.  A common situation on that note was what clinicians call, “The Tyranny of the Shoulds” which left the individual wrapped up in a maze of, “You should do this” or “you should do that” or “you should not do this or that.”  The clinical quip was to tell the client, “Stop ‘shoulding” on yourself.”

The following cartoon beautifully illustrates the danger of hyper-concern for safety:

Naomi Shihab Nye Poem on Kindness

Naomi Shihab Nye is one of my favorite contemporary poets. Here her poem, “Kindness,” is offered as an oral presentation by the author and I will offer the text following a few words. The poem is elegant and profound with its utmost simplicity, letting me appreciate how kindness is offered in the things which we take for granted. It is the kindness afforded by life itself, often through other people, which we will not miss until we lose them or are faced with their loss. And I’m saddened to reflect back on missed opportunities to offer this kindness and failed to appreciate when it was being proffered to me.

Before you know what kindness really is
   you must lose things,
   feel the future dissolve in a moment
   like salt in a weakened broth.
   What you held in your hand,                    5
   what you counted and carefully saved,
   all this must go so you know
   how desolate the landscape can be
   between the regions of kindness.
   How you ride and ride                         10

   thinking the bus will never stop,
   the passengers eating maize and chicken
   will stare out the window forever.
 
   Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
   you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho  15
   lies dead by the side of the road.
   You must see how this could be you,
   how he too was someone
   who journeyed through the night with plans
   and the simple breath that kept him alive.           20
 
   Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
   you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
   You must wake up with sorrow.
   You must speak to it till your voice
   catches the thread of all sorrows                 25
   and you see the size of the cloth.
 
   Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
   only kindness that ties your shoes
   and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
   only kindness that raises its head                 30
   from the crowd of the world to say
   It is I you have been looking for,
   and then goes with you everywhere
   like a shadow or a friend.
        

“Rage, Rage, Against That Good Night”

Poet Dylan Thomas suggest rage had its place. Shakespeare, in King Lear said, “Blunt not the heart, enrage it.” Sometimes anger does have a place in unleashing the dormant passions of unlived life. The following poem is by Lynn Emanuel in the pages of a recent copy of the New York Review of Books:

hello to the unimaginative and dim ways of my kin, hello
to the bad lot we are, to the women mean and plucked, and to the men

on the broken steps who beat down the roses with their hosings,
to the nights that rose black as an inked plate, into which an acid bit stars—

puckered, tight, hard, pale as a surgeon’s scars,
hello to all that vast, unconditional bad luck, to the sensible, the stuffy,

the ugly couture of the thrifty, to the limp of bad goods, of old
furniture, the repeated wince of the creaky rocker, and to the grandmothers

dying in its clutch, and hello to rage which like an axis can move the world.

A Few More Thoughts About My Ignorance

After confessing my “ignorance” yesterday, I must qualify this declaration to some degree.  I know a lot of “stuff” as the result of being, in some sense, only an “observer” in life and not an “experiencer.”  Just as my sweet-heart Emily Dickinson quipped over her version of this character flaw, “Life is over there…on a shelf.”  I have read voraciously in my life, having discovered in my first days in elementary school that words offered so much to my frightened and lonely soul.  I have a modest library today, though impressive in its character; but each volume has passed the “smell test” and found lodging in my heart.

Yes, I am one damn smart “son of a gun!”  I was so smart that my daddy called me, “Son”…to use an old joke from the 60’s! Recently I decided that all of this wisdom and erudition was so valuable that I put it all in a paper bag, took it down to McDonalds, and tried to buy a Senior cup of coffee.  “Oh yes,” they said, “we’ll take the bag of your verbosity…but the coffee will still cost you a dollar!” I took my cup of coffee, turned to find a table where I would open my copy of G. W. F. Hegel’s “On Art, Religion, and Philosophy: Introduction to the Realm of Absolute Spirit.”  But as I made my turn, I could not help but notice that the cashier took that paper bag of my brilliance and dropped it into a trash can! Facetiousness and self-deprecation aside, I recognize that I am intelligent and erudite.  But as noted yesterday, all of this leaves me profoundly “ignorant” in a very important respect; for words are but “pointers”;  or as the Buddhists have told us, “The finger pointing to the moon is not the moon.”  The great Catholic scholar and author, Thomas Aquinas, in his early fifties after having gone through a mystical experience didn’t write another thing the rest of his life, noting, “It was all straw.”

This vein of wisdom began to seep into my heart in my mid-thirties, burrowing gently but determinedly into my thick skull when the pain of alienation was setting in and poetry began to find a place in my heart.  This “still small voice” was at first a simple murmur but in the past three decades it has become a loud voice, providing the view point through which I approach my world, seeing metaphor where I had before only seen “fact.”  Yes, “the letter kills, but the spirit maketh alive.”  I close with the words of the brilliant Irish poet, William Butler Yeats who sums it up for me, “Throughout all the lying days of my youth, I waved my leaves and flowers in the sun.  Now may I wither into the Truth.”

Hibah Shabkhez, Poetry, and Truth

A Pakistani woman, a poet, essayest, and native of Pashtun, Hibah Shabkez, responds quite frequently to my musings in this blog. And, I am so, so honored with these visits from this extraordinary young soul who is now studying in Paris. She is about a third of my age but blessed with a wisdom, including a keen grasp of language, that I’m only now beginning to tippy-toe into,  I’ve been exploring her work on the internet, and now own a book of her poetry, “Alack, The Ashen Waves of the Sea: Selected Poetry,” which is available at Amazon.com for a very reasonable price.  But I will share here the most stunning bit of wisdom that I’ve seen put into words in my decades of spelunking about in the metaphysics of language. 

In her brief essay from the on-line journal, “Nighting Gale and Sparrow,” Hibah puts into words a linguistic complexity which has burdened me for decades.  Of late, I’ve come to somewhat understand this complexity but, have never been able to put into words as eloquently as she has. She explains that language initially blinds us to the Truth even as it assures us, often, that we have it most assuredly. The threat of understanding this wisdom that she offers is something I could not have handled most of my life; but now, it is immensely freeing, reminding me that all of us are in the same existential dilemma; and it is this “dilemma” that unites us all…if we can humbly accept its “condition of complete simplicity, costing not less than everything.”  (T.S. Eliot)  It takes all the pressure off and gives new meaning to the old hymnological bromide, “Burdens are lifted at Calvary”; or to word it without the hint of religious savagery, “Chill out. Carry on.  All is well. We’re in this together.”

ScareZone by Hibah Shabkhez

When you touch the edge of something hot—a frying-pan, a clothes-iron—you gasp and flinch away, before the knowledge, before the shock and the hurt and the searing of flesh. Locked in the thumping of your heart then, there is the secret triumph of assault successfully withstood, the inexpressible comfort of knowing it could not and cannot hurt you because you did and can again make it stop. But the drenching heat of liquid cannot be flung off, only sponged and coaxed away from the skin. And so they say doodh ka jala, chhaachh bhi phook phook kar peeta hai. (Urdu translation, “Once bitten, twice shy.”) It doesn’t take all men, you see, it takes only one; and just so, it takes only one vile lie to break a language’s heart.

When first you write a lie, a real lie and not simply a truth incognito, whether it be falsehood or treacherous half-truth, language recoils from you in pain, vowing never to trust you with words again. But if you must go on writing lies, for money or grundy-respect, seize the language and let it feel the sting and the trickling fear of the skin parting company with the flesh, over and over and over again, as you hold it unscreaming under the current. You must let body and mind and heart and soul be quite maimed then, until there is no difference left for any of them between truth and lie, between the coldness of lassi (urdu–”buttermilk”) and the heat of milk-tides rising from the saucepan. Thereafter you may plunder with impunity all of language and force it to house your lies. And if you will never again find words to tell a truth in, it will not matter, for you will have no truths left to tell.

“Prayer” by Louis Untermeyer

Louis Untermeyer is an obscure poet who has etched himself in my heart, primarily due to the poem which I will attach, “Prayer.”  The poem itself reveals so much about the man and the inner torments which led him into the literary world.  But these “torments,” whatever they were, wreaked havoc often in his life.  He was married three or four times and one of his sons committed suicide at age 19.  Furthermore, he was a panelist on the popular TV show in 1950, “What’s My Line” but ruffled feathers so that he was forced out leading to a year-long depression and social isolation.  I think the description “irascible and cantankerous” would describe him. He knew the W. H. Auden wisdom, “We wage the war we are.”

Poetry arises from a tumult in the soul and without men and women who have had the courage to wrestle with this tumult humankind would be at a loss.  Poetry brings to the table depths of the heart that the simple prosaity of day-to-day life cannot offer.

Prayer
God, though this life is but a wraith,
Although we know not what we use,
Although we grope with little faith,
Give me the heart to fight – and lose.
Ever insurgent let me be,
Make me more daring than devout;
From sleek contentment keep me free,
And fill me with a buoyant doubt.
Open my eyes to vision girt
With beauty, and with with wonder lit –
But let me always see the dirt,
And all that spawn and die in it.
Open my ears to music; let
Me thrill with Spring’s first flutes and drums –
But never let me dare forget
The bitter ballads of the slums.
From compromise and things half-done,
Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride;
And when, at last, the fight is won,
God, keep me still unsatisfied.
– Louis Untermeyer

Mary Trump and “Expurgation.”

Mary Trump is one expression of what T. S. Eliot had in mind with his play, “The Family Reunion.”  In that story, Eliot projected himself onto the character “Harry” who felt the abysmal ugliness of his dysfunctional family.  “Harry” carried the wounds of a tortured family and was able to put them into words in this very disturbing, dark drama.

With the publication of her book, “Too Much and Never Enough: How My Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man,” Ms. Trump graphically put into words the demonic evil of growing up in the distorted world of Fred Trump, the father of our president.  It is no accident that she became a therapist as the training involved and the clinical work in her career has been “purgatorial” for her.  In the Eliot play, the wounded “pain bearer” of the family is described as, “a bird sent flying through the purgatorial fire.” Eliot was a deeply spiritual man and his literary work often uses biblical imagery such as “purgatory” to paint a picture of the struggle of the human soul.

In the following quote from “The Family Reunion,” Eliot summarized the spiritual work that is always underway in human experience, even in the political dance we call a “family.”   At the end, I will post a longer section of the play which provides more context.

What we have written is not a story of detection,
Of crime and punishment, but of sin and expiation.
It is possible that you have not known what sin
You shall expiate, or whose, or why. It is certain
That the knowledge of it must precede the expiation.
It is possible that sin may strain and struggle
In its dark instinctive birth, to come to consciousness
And so find expurgation.

Hold Tight, Hold Tight: T.S. Eliot’s “The Family Reunion”

https://mbird.com/tag/family-reunion/

Franz Kafka on the Power of Books

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”  Kafka knew that our internal life is always “frozen” to some degree, confined to structure and routine which allows us to live our lives in a structured and routine life.  But he knew that at some time in our life this “frozen sea” needs to be broken up and that literature, i.e. “books”, are one means by which this is accomplished.  But he also noted that the only books that could serve this purpose are those that, “wound or stab us” to “wake us up with a blow to the head.”

Routine and structure provide safety and no one can fault humankind for desiring safety.   Otto Brown noted, “Reality is a veil we spin to hide the void” but he also knew that this was a necessary “veil” which provides the safety necessary to go about day-to-day life and keep the wheels of our social organization spinning.  But Kafka’s concern, and the concern of other writers and artists, is that the need for safety can become so great that life itself is stifled and instead of an interior “flow” in our heart we have only a “frozen sea.”  W. H. Auden put it this way, “We have made for ourselves a life safer than we can bear.”

If the risk of life is not acknowledged…the fragility and vulnerability of being a mere “meat suit” in a relentlessly grinding cosmos will be avoided; but so will the experience of being alive. It is disconcerting for humankind to consider his vulnerability, to realize that he is this mere “sack of bones” on a speck of cosmic dust on a lonely planet.  It is this finitude that he seeks to hide with this specious “safety” that Kafka suggested books could “crack.”

This is a personal issue for me, thus a recurrent theme in my daily life and in this blog.  Literature has been the primary means whereby the “frozen sea” in my heart has been shattering for the past three decades since a good friend gave me a copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets and introduced me to W. H. Auden and T.S. Eliot.  Good literature comes from the depths of the heart and speaks to the depths of the heart, described by the Psalmist as, “deep calls unto deep.”

Here is the Kafka quote in  full:

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.

Authenticity, God, and Identity Crisis

People of spiritual commitment often, if not most of the time, come to the point in their life when their faith needs to be cast aside.  This is the time when emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually the maturity has been reached to realize that even spirituality can be used to cover up the essence of life, even the “God” that we purport to worship.  This does not mean that this “God” will necessarily be forsaken but that one’s projections about “God” will be seen for what they are and cast aside, leaving one with the possibility of discovering “God” in a meaningful fashion.

This identity crisis, usually in mid life, is when the fantasy world that we have created and wrapped around ourselves is crumbling, providing for us an opportunity to enter into a more authentic dimension of life.  Even the “God” we have been worshipping might be seen as a self-serving fantasy and will have to be given up for a more honest, humbling relationship with a God who is the very Ground of our Being, our Source, and not a mere prop to adorn the hollow life that we have been living.

Anthropologist Clifford Geerst once said, “Man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun.”  It is challenging to contemplate that the whole of our life, including our faith, is suspended in these “webs” and that to achieve any authenticity we will have to wrestle with them and discover as did poet Adrienne Rich that, “We can’t begin to discover who we are until we recognize the assumptions in which we are drenched.”  It is only when some, or most of these “assumptions” begin to crumble that we can begin to understand the wisdom of the crooner Leonard Cohen, “There’s a crack in everything; that is how the light gets in.”