Change a single letter in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s famous line from In Memoriam A.H.H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 27—gawd, what a title—and you get the nut of what James Hollis is getting at in his 10th desideratum (I paraphrase, of course): ‘Tis better to have lived and lost; Than never to have lived at all.. Or, as Rumi wrote in a favorite of mine:
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
In What Gift Have You Been Withholding From The World? from his Living An Examined Life Hollis, makes another of his assertions that astonishes when he begins his second paragraph with:
There is no one I know who is without wounds to self-esteem.
Of course, that might be plainly clear of his patients, but he includes, here, his family, his friends, his colleagues, literally everyone he knows. I don’t doubt for a moment the veracity of what he writes, but the sweep of those words leaves me speechless. Deeper in the paragraph he continues:
Jung observed that usually behind the wound lies the genius of the person. That is to say, where we are hurt often quickens consciousness and resolve and abundant energy to persist, even prevail. The key is not what happens to us, but how it is internalized and whether those messages expand or diminish our resilience. Again, the question is not what happened but what it makes us do or keeps us from doing. This why two people can experience comparable life difficulties and move on in quite different ways. p. 51-52
First, Jung uses genius here in the original sense. The ancients thought of genius as power outside of the self rather than an attribute of the person: we are possessed by a genius rather than being one ourselves. Second, I take Hollis’ point here, but I think he treads in dangerous territory bordering on survivor bias. I can well imagine two siblings experiencing identical family trauma and responding in very different manners that have nothing to do with choice.
I have always believed that successful parenting is found, not in the splendiferous achievements of the child, who may only be compensating for the unlived life of the parent, but in the child who understands that he or she is seen and valued for who they are, not what they are supposed to do, achieve, become. It sounds so simple yet proves so rare. p. 52
When we consider how many children’s lives have been screwed up by parents who themselves are damaged, that humanity still exists is a wonder.
How often I have said, in discussing a compelling dream or some symptomatic resurgence, “Where do you think this came from inside you?” and “What does it mean that something inside of you has expressed itself this way?” How often have I observed, “Do you now see that something inside of you exists independent of your will, your conscious life? Do you not see that something inside of you sees you and asks something of you?” Even the most troubling dream is an autonomous manifestation of something large within us that asks our respect, our dialogue. p. 52
I have no reason to believe that I dream any less than other people, but I certainly don’t remember many dreams. Looking back over my life I suppose I could point at a handful or so that I remembered at the time. Is this a sign of my general good mental health or the opposite? Who knows?
In the end we are not here to fit in, to be well adjusted, acceptable to all, or to make our parents proud of us. We are here to be ourselves. Often that is not pretty, but it is honest. And our gift to the the great mosaic of the world is our uniqueness. Each of us has something to bring to the mosaic of the time that is unfolding in and through us whether we are aware or not. p. 53
I would point to the fact that Hollis places no value judgment of that gift. Some will push humanity forward, some will pull it backward and most, I assume, will just be along for the ride. Our gift is not special, it just is. What we do with the gift, with ourselves, is what is important.
The humble, brilliant Jesuit priest and poet Gerard Manley Hopkins saw it in the nineteenth century. In his poem As Kingfishers Catch Fire, he describes:
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.
With his poetic sensibility, his metaphoric leap , he understands that the Self is not an object, not a noun, but rather a verb. The Self is always “selving,” seeking expression. p. 53-54
I am reminded here of David Cooper’s brilliant book: God Is A Verb. He writes:
What is God? God is not what we think It is. God is not a thing, a being, a noun. It does not exist, as existence is defined, for It takes up no space (or includes all space but is not limited by it) and is not bound by time. Jewish mystics often refer to It as Ein Sof, which means Endlessness.
Ein Sof should never be conceptualized in any way. It should not be called Creator, Almighty, Father, Mother, Infinite, the One, Brahma, Buddhamind, Allah, Adonoy, Elohim, El, or Shaddai; and It should never, never be called He. It is none of these names and it has no gender.
I wonder if Cooper ever read As Kingfishers Catch Fire?
Some people’s lives express themselves externally through the gifts of intellect, talent or achievement of some sort or another. The world of selfies, the Guinness Book of World Records and the need for the fifteen minutes of fame are all compensations for not feeling one’s inherent value in the first place. p. 54
This was, and continues to be, for the message outlives the messenger, the genius of Mr. Rogers.
How many times people have said to me: “I have always wanted to… (fill in the blank)—to write a book, learn to play the piano, fly a plane and so on—yet all those sentences also include a “but” that transitions the thought down to the familiar old alley of flight, denial, repression and disregard. The “but” covers a multitude of rationales, fears and old messages that keep us from our essential selfhood, from our ordinary being that is our gift to the world. p. 54
There is a joke among writers concerning a segment of people who attend writing retreats or ask to join a writers’ group: They don’t want to write, the want to have written. They want to enjoy the perceived celebrity status of being a writer without putting in the time of actually putting words to paper. This is the underlying message we send ourselves when we write—as I have—letters to our younger selves. We wish to benefit from the hard work of that earlier incarnation. There is no reason whey anyone, myself included, should wish that on someone else; we could and should, get on with doing the work. Now! Hollis concludes:
To be eccentric, not to fit in, to hear our own drummer, these are the signs of our bringing our gift, our personhood, to the table of life. It sounds so simple, but it is so difficult, not only because of all the disabling messages of the past, but also because to be that gift asks us to let go and trust that something within us is good enough, wise enough, strong enough to belong in this world. How dare one disregard what is seeking expression through us, to cower in the darkness of fear, to resist the gift that illumines this otherwise colorless world.
Hey, hey, my, my, Neal Young nailed it.