Winter Reading

Haddon  Turner

You Are Limited

If there is an overarching theme to nearly everything I’ve thought and written about in the past ten years, it is this: I’ve received a clear, unavoidable message that I Am Not In Control (and that’s a good thing)* How do I then understand reality and live a good life in this paradigm? Haddon Turner is also thinking about these questions. His essay feels especially relevant in the first cold snap of winter: the first time the snow and ice has stayed on the ground. Winter driving alone makes me very aware of my limitations and those of the people around me. (I approve of AI tools to make driving safer. For me at least, driving a car is a unnatural activity and it makes complete sense that I need to supplement my attention and cognition to do it safely.)

Quote:

“…..The irrevocable limitations of the created order will always be something we come up against — things which cause us to stop and will confound the best of our limitless plans. As long as there is daytime in which we can work, the limitations of the darkness of night will not be far behind. The seasons will always influence (for good or for ill) our labour and health, and the uncontrollable weather will waylay our best plans. And most profoundly, the earth’s spatial, energetic and resource limitations will constrain the heights our economic growth is able to reach. We live on a limited earth. Only a fool forgets this.”

Alex Kaschuta

Cope Springs Eternal

Every time I read a perceptive essay about the illusions and delusions of the internet, I think, This is ironic. Would I be better off not spending time on the internet instead of reading criticisms of it? To some degree, the answer is Yes. But if you are going to use any part of the internet for information or entertainment or connection or commerce, and I assume most people are, including myself, this sort of critique is helpful.

Quote:

“Cope is not about the content, but about the psychological function of consuming it. Both the content that offers options for what you might do, such as interior design, fitness, health, and financial planning, and the content that provides reasons for why you are not doing these things, such as conspiracies, social critique, and, let’s be honest, politics, can serve the function of cope. You might do one of the 176 useful things you’ve scrolled through today, or, even better, you might collect a few more for use in an indeterminate future. You could start looking around for little ways to improve your existence, but when the world is on fire and “improvement” itself is a heteropatriarchal concept or a plot by our gynocentric hypergamous overlords, it seems best to sit tight.”

Heather Heying

Interconnection

An anecdote that is a sort of bookend to my previous blog about politicizing every experience, every relationship, every communication and why that might be not a good idea.

Quote:

“…..My friend feels free to share her anguish with me, because, like so many of our friends and family members, she cannot conceive that I might feel the exact opposite. And that’s a large part of how we got here: Hubris.

We’re so right, many of them have been saying for years now, and we have God on our side. How could any sane person see anything differently than how we see it? And if you do think differently, well, you're just plain wrong, and you’re probably an “ist,” - a racist, a sexist, a misogynist, and especially, our favorite word, a fascist.”

Haddon Turner (again!)

Where You Are Is Where You Are

The quote above mentioned hubris, and Haddon Turner tackles hubris head on here, discussing what should be the main focus of our attention: the local, national, or global? When I look back at my life, I think I have always wanted, consciously or sub consciously, to live my life immersed in local community. But it took a lot of exploring, including time living in places far from my birthplace, to be able to begin to understand how to do that. It wasn’t something I was taught. I would venture this is true of many people born in the last 40-50 years. We learned, directly or indirectly, that we create our identities through consumption, not through participation in local community. 

I also continue to come to terms with the fact that my forebears were fleeing fractured communities (many layers of dislocation) and they did not, most likely could not, (not having experienced it themselves) pass on to me the kind of continuous tradition and coherent identity I have always wanted at some level. I agree with Turner that the local is the correct place to  aim one’s focus most of the time: but myself personally, and undoubtedly many other millions of people, are in their current home because of global forces beyond their control. So understanding who you are now may require also learning a bit about the global. 

Quote:

“You are not responsible for the whole world — far from it. But you are responsible for the local places in front of you: the local people who you relate to, the unique buildings, art, and beauty that you enjoy every day, and the local environments and habitats that surround the place you dwell. Where you are is where you are — and what you are responsible for. This is a burden heavy enough for us. This is a burden that matches our limitations. This is a burden that we can faithfully discharge. And this is a burden that will present us with a lifetime of opportunities for doing good.”

And the last word goes to Paul Kingsnorth: 

The Moses Option

Quote:

I used to believe in Big Movements and Big Ideas. I wrote whole books about them. Not any more. For a long time, I have believed something else instead: that if there is any world-saving to be done - if this notion is not in fact just hubristic and stupid in itself - then it is only going to come from the small, the local and, above all, the spiritual. And if there is no world-saving to be done - well, then our work remains exactly the same.

….And I might as well get on with it.

Flashback to 2016

I was scrolling through some unpublished posts on my other blog, and I came across this one from October 15, 2016.  I titled it: "The things I have to say that don't fit anywhere."

At the time, torthúil journey had a small but established and homogenous readership. Just how homogenous, I started to realize after the 2016 American election, when I saw my small community all express essentially identical political and cultural views. It wasn't long before this started to bother me, not so much the views themselves, but the fact there were no dissenting or different voices. Furthermore, I didn't even see difference or dissent valued in the abstract. Naturally, I didn't share these raw thoughts on that blog. They seemed almost scandalous then. This was before I discovered Jordan Peterson and the movement some call the "meaning crisis," before I started learning about Christianity, including Jonathan Pageau and Fr. Stephen Freeman and others, before Covid, before I (mostly) quit social media. Since I wrote these words I have accepted these observations about myself, have thought about them and addressed them, have in some ways moved past them. But I thought they would be interesting to record and share, especially in the context of the post about books. I think my thoughts here go some way toward explaining why I am reading and learning about the things that I am.

They also mark a moment in time, and one that I am no longer self-conscious or embarrassed about. These things I had to say do fit: they are an important part of my journey.

The things I have to say that don't fit anywhere (October 16th, 2016)

Surrounded by propaganda. People taking "sides." Most of those sides don't fit with my questions, my concerns, my beliefs. It all leaves me with a feeling of unreality.  What is most obvious to me is that I've lost interest in culture. This might sound like an esoteric problem. Reading novels and going to concerts and comedy clubs and plays is hardly essential to survival, right? I'm reasonably healthy; I have a job, a family, a house, some (rather neglected) friends. But my avoidance of culture is a huge break from how I lived most of my adult life. Concert halls were a home to me as much in a way as my physical home. I identified with certain artists and felt they spoke for me, gave my inner life voice and connected me to a larger community. No more. I feel like when I go to an event, the artist (and the audience) is going to start signalling, openly or covertly, about which side of the culture wars they are on. I respect people's freedom of opinion. But the constant signalling/side taking leaves me with the feeling that the event I'm going to is meaningless in and of itself. The artist and their work is irrelevant, or at least secondary, an (possibly) amusing distraction. What truly matters, what people truly care about, is which side the artist is on and which side their audience is on. That is where the solidarity comes from, not from the fact we have all come to this place because we value the cultural artifact on display. So I end up not going. For a couple of days I make up my mind to go to an event; I might even tell Mr. Turtle that we should make plans. A few weeks later, I realize I never bought tickets, the event is passed and I don't really care. It has happened again and again. It's not just that I have a toddler and an intense job and I'm busy. I know I won't find the belonging and catharsis I'm looking for, but I will find more pressure and more propaganda. There is no appeal.

And novels. Why is it I enjoy novels? I can take another person's perspective. I can choose to believe in the alternate reality they create. Really, reading novels is like allowing another human to rent space in my brain. They can live there for a while, interact with my feelings and ideas, and when it's time for them to leave, I have a sense of what I learned from the visit and if I want them back. I've always been very generous with renting out my mental space and I enjoy the "visits" a lot. There isn't a type of book I regularly read; if it has words on the page I'll read it. In university I didn't specialize in any kind of literature, though I developed an interest in medieval literature in the later years. I studied with professors who had a variety of critical and ideological perspectives, and I got along well with all of them.

Lately, I have no desire to read novels. At first I thought that this was just because I am more interested in current events and non fiction. That is true. But there is something else going on. I don't want to rent out my mental space anymore. I am less willing (unwilling) to let someone else come into my mind to play. Again, I think it has to do with being surrounded by propaganda. I fundamentally mistrust the stories and messages I get from the media, and from my peers, and from the supposed arbiters of culture in our society, because I see the dishonesty and manipulation. Logically, then, why would I assume that a writer is any different? Why would I assume their morals and motivations are superior to those I see every day? Because they are published? Because somebody wrote a good review? Because a friend told me they were good? Because they are popular? I trust none of those things. But I should still be able to give a book a try and make up my own mind, right? In theory yes. But in in practice, I feel it is not worth the time or effort. What are the odds I will learn something of value, versus the odds that I will be bombarded with more of the same? I don't recall consciously making this decision, but somewhere along the way I decided the odds were against novels being enjoyable or useful. What about escape? I don't want to escape. Or, I feel there is no escape. I might long for it, but I know that escape amounts to surrender and denial. I am surrounded by corruption on a fundamental level, and I have no time for anyone who is not actively engaging with and challenging it.

Seeds in my mind

 Spring and summer are the seasons of growing. I plant flowers and sometimes herbs and vegetables. I try to pull out most of the weeds so there is space for what I want to grow.

I have been also paying attention to what I plant in my mind, or what others try to plant in my mind. Here are some of the seeds currently growing in my consciousness (and perhaps also in my un-consciousness.)

Why is it that the world of people often feels noisy, very noisy, but also lonely? So many opinions, so many emotions, so many experiences and things to say about them. But every so often, there's a person whose words resonate. I think it has to do with humility and honesty and being willing to share that vulnerability of being human and open to learning. What does that tell me about how I should be?

Water always flows downhill. So imagine a rainstorm, a babbling brook, a river, a violent storm, a sewer, a flood, a leaky faucet....all that water, all making its way to the ocean. It's going to the same place. That's how it feels to me when I start to see a pattern in my life.

Someone said this: "being like water is a metaphor for the principle of wu wei, which is sometimes described as "doing by doing nothing". Just as water flows downhill effortlessly, moved by the forces of nature rather than its own effort and volition, and simply goes around obstacles rather than trying to tear them down, one is advised to move through life in the most natural way that is harmonious with one's environment - the path of least resistance - allowing the universe to move you where it will." 

How many "solutions" do we accept that involve control and violence? Is it possible to have control without violence? (I am thinking about this and I can't think of an example. Other than maybe self-control). Why do we accept violence and control as normal? Is there another way?

Everything is temporary. Every material item, every thought, every feeling, every skill and piece of knowledge. Every relationship. Some last longer than others, but change always comes. How do I want to live my life with this knowledge of change and ultimately loss? Who am I going to be in 10, 20, 30 years (if so fortunate). What's going to matter to me at the end of my life, when I have lost or let go of everything I currently consider important and am about to say goodbye to anything that remains? (Which could be sooner than I think....nobody actually knows). 

Most people would not describe me as a quarrelsome or aggressive person. Probably quite the opposite. But, a conversation recently made me aware that I actually do quarrel with people often....in my mind. Just thinking of certain people or situations can cause a physical defensive reaction. It is interesting to become consciously aware of this. The person I was describing this to wrote (after expressing understanding and admitting to the same behaviour): "I try to reframe it from wasteful internal conflict to useful scripts to begin practicing enough that they become natural to say out loud." That is something to think about.

How often do I curse and why? I don't go around screaming epithets at people (not so far). I tell my children that it's not helpful or kind to call things "stupid." "All you are doing is telling someone you don't respect them or you don't respect the thing they have created. How is that good for you or anyone else?" But I do curse. I curse jokingly with my friends and colleagues (I use black humour a lot). I curse at aggressive or clueless drivers. In frustration, I curse situations I find myself in. Just hearing or seeing certain people's names is enough to cause an internal cringe and/or curse. What is this behaviour actually doing in me and in the world? What is the alternative?

The colours of summer are really, really beautiful right now. Greens, blues, golds, highlights of white. It is such a gift. 

Inhabiting a persona

So, there is a lot going on these days, both family-related (moving my mom to assisted living), work (the usual challenges, plus a close co-worker leaving). Plus illness, lots of illness this month. And a higher than average anxiety level because of all the things I am dealing with. I am currently sick enough that I’m not doing much besides sitting around at home, which is unusual for me: I almost always find something to do besides being sick. Not this time. Just reading and thinking and writing to pass the time and distract myself. 

Against this backdrop my brain entertained me last night with a pretty cinematic dream. It’s hard to recall all the details, but it was one of those dreams where I inhabit a different persona. So I experience the dream story first-person but I’m not *me*, per se. This is always a bit of an unsettling experience. Am I temporarily possessed or am I possessing somebody else? And what does it mean? Probably nothing, but my curiosity is still aroused by the experience.

My character was female, but younger than I am now, probably about mid-20s. My sense of my appearance was that it was average, with long dark hair. I did not feel that anything about me in particular stood out, and I didn’t want to stand out.

I was in a busy urban centre, full of commercial and/or government buildings. I don’t recall any green space. This city was outwardly peaceful, but there was a tension there too, a sense of violence lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the opportunity to emerge.

I was a person with secrets, someone who was not what she seemed. And it was my goal to cause some kind of disruption. But it wasn’t calculated, exactly, it was an intention inside me that had a kind of inevitability about it.

Now that I think about it, I do recognize this aspect of the dream persona. When people are trying to understand surprising events, I notice they try to rationalize them, most often. They come up with reasons why this or that thing might have happened. Or they assume there are unknown reasons, that if uncovered, would make a coherent narrative. Something we could stand outside of, say “Oh, that is why and how that happened.” Where we could identify specific agents (usually people not ourselves, especially if they are doing something bad) and say “It is because of them” or more specifically “It is their fault.” 

I do this too, of course. But I have noticed I tend to be more aware that I’m doing this act of rationalizing than the average person I interact with. And I am aware of when I’m doing it to fulfill a social convention, but I’m not really that into it. I am not sure why I am like this, but I think it’s because I have an awareness of my own internal chaos. In other words, I know my rational, socially acceptable persona is mostly an act. It’s an act I’m dedicated to, and pretty good at, but it’s not even close to being all I am. I’m a seething, intuitive chaos. Therefore, chaos in the world tends not to surprise me too much. It may follow a pattern, but does it always have to have a cause and effect explanation? Does there always have to be a specific person or people behind an event that instigates it? I don’t think so. Sometimes the only explanation is….people being people. And that means all of us.

So perhaps in my dream I got to inhabit this personified chaos for a while. Now, my character had a  sense of being isolated, secretive and fearful, but she was not entirely alone. There was at least one other friendly person she was interacting with, and this friend was like a guide. There was a sense of being led around the centre of the city. Even a feeling of fun, playfulness. But it was disrupted. My character did something violent, something that permanently altered the environment of the city. It would no longer be the same place after this event. I knew this and made no attempt to flee, even though I knew I would be found and there would be some sort of vengeance. Again, it all felt inevitable, nothing that could be avoided.

Now the most vivid and surprising part of the dream. At the end of it, I wasn’t alone. My friend, the guide was still there. But so were a lot of other people. Not doing anything in particular. Just surrounding me. There to witness something?

I don’t remember anything else. It was like watching a strange old movie, made by a slightly crazy person. But the main feeling was this sense of moving from an (almost) unseen, unrecognized agent, to one who was seen and acknowledged.

Christmas Eve 2019: part 1

I had a couple of synchronous events happen on Christmas Eve this past December, and the thoughts, feelings and the desire to do something about  them have stayed with me. In so far as I have a goal for 2020 other then surviving, it is forming around this experience.

Here is the first part.

Mr. Turtle had to work until 5pm Christmas Eve, as did other family. So there were no big plans for this day, but I wanted to do something with the girls to make it memorable. I had an idea to go to a Christmas Eve service. But which church? There are a few in our neighbourhood; however I thought to include my mom (she is elderly and a widow) it would make more sense to choose one near her. She still lives in the house I grew up in, and a five minute walk away is St. Barnabus Anglican.

 I have a small connection with this church because many years ago, from the ages of 8 till 12 roughly, I took ballet lessons from a teacher who rented space in the church hall. Although we were not formally connected with the church we were involved a couple of times with their events. One was a Christmas musical production of Cinderella. We did a couple of dances: one was to The Teddy Bears’ Picnic and for the other we wore fluffy tutus and were part of the ball scene. It was my first time performing on a stage and therefore made a big impression. The second time was part of a St George’s day celebration and we learned and performed an English folk dance. These are good memories from my childhood, and they provide a connection to the church, which while tenuous is still more than I have to any other church. Those were sufficient reasons to choose it for our Christmas Eve outing.

I had no serious worries we wouldn’t be welcome, but I was still a bit nervous when the time came. I told myself it was ok to try something new.  5 year old AJ was enthusiastic, although she had never been in a church before and the closest thing she had seen to a service was Elsa’s coronation from Frozen.  We had read her some Bible stories in the past year, when she showed an interest. She received them much as she did fairy tales or any other story, coolly observing “But God isn’t real,” and assuming adult support for this statement, while we said things like  “well nobody knows for sure” and privately thought: “We really need a strategy here.....” Dani, almost 23 months, was ready for any adventure we cared to offer.

It was a beautiful evening, a winter dusk glowing blue with snow light.  I was reminded of childhood walks through the neighbourhood (although never to church).  The crunch of snow underfoot, the shining streetlights, the warmth and welcome of my family’s home after an evening of swimming or a ballet lesson. Or perhaps we might be walking up the hill to see an opera or a ballet at the auditorium. My dad always made sure we had season tickets to the opera, ballet or symphony, whatever other luxuries we overlooked in our frugal lifestyle. 

As we approached the church we saw people gathering for the service and we entered with them. The church was lovely inside: brightly lit with blond wood accents, high ceiling, stained glass windows, tall candles burning. The adults were handed a program and the kids were given glow sticks, which immediately interested then in the proceedings. They were also supposed to have musical instruments, but somehow we missed those.

I was half paying attention to what was going on and the other half focused on my mom and kids. They were fine though; AJ and Dani were curious enough enough about what was going on to stay engaged and not become overly restless.  As the service began I took it in with my available attention and found my mind bringing up different thoughts and memories in an effort to relate.

• I followed others’ lead for the parts of the service where people spoke different words together, and felt awkward trying to find the right hymn in the right book, etc. But I appreciated the poetry of the communally spoken verses. Again I reminded myself it was better to do something awkwardly than not at all. Just showing up was enough for now: no need to have further expectations. 
• The service included many references to the darkness of winter, and the return of the light, which was associated with Jesus. This made me think about how many cultures have rituals around the solstice, and the discussion of how Christianity adopted rituals from other cultures. I have never thought this was a big deal or really that relevant as more than interesting information. I would think it stranger for people to not learn from each other and adapt and adopt.
•  I also thought of my self consciously non-Christian or New Agey acquaintances who post things like “Blessed Solstice” or whatever instead of “Merry Christmas” around this time of year. I find those statements a bit off key: what exactly is the significance of an astronomical event if you aren’t clear about the meanings you are attaching to it? Perhaps the people who say “Happy Solstice” do have a meaning in their mind, but it is never plain to me what that is, or if I am just supposed to read whatever I want into the statement. I prefer the Christian rite where the solstice is attached to a story with significance.
• The most relatable part of the service was singing Christmas carols. And I knew them well enough that I could sing mostly without looking at the words, which allowed me to feel more a part of the celebration. Singing with others is a powerful transformative experience as is dancing with others; this is not the first time such an experience has taken me to another level of awareness. 
• Singing the carols reminded me of why I am familiar with Christmas carols.  For several years in my 20s and early 30s,  I would get together with friends and sing carols around the neighbourhood. It was always a fun time of laughter and bonding and the spontaneous pleasure of surprising people with song and neighbourly spirit. After a hiatus of many years a friend and I organized a caroling evening last year, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. But this year our lives were too chaotic to make plans.
• For many years (but not the last 5) I also played music with an adult concert band, and the Christmas concert was a yearly tradition.  Starting in November each band and choir would begin practicing their Christmas repertoire. The end of every concert was a Christmas sing along where the audience would get to their feet and sing a medley of carols with the bands. It never occurred to me that this tradition echoed a church service but now I saw that it did. I both missed the experience of playing in a band and having that yearly ritual and found it interesting to see the origin of it.
• A family with children a few years older than mine was invited to help with some of the service, such as lighting advent candles. They wore special white robes.  At one point the pastor also invited all the children to come up front to hear the nativity story. AJ and Dani were curious but too shy to go. It was then that I had the thought: what if I had grown up coming to this church and these rituals had become second nature? What if my parents had overcome their fear of organized religion (that is a whole other story) and we had walked to St Barnabas every week to sing songs and speak words about faith? How would that have affected me as a person? I thought it would have likely been mostly positive. And what if my mother had had a community to turn to and support her when my father died? What if she had familiar people around her in widowhood instead of facing the nearly impossible task of forming new friendships as an elderly woman who is declining cognitively? 
• Or, remembering a different time of my life: what if I had had a faith to turn to in my early adulthood? Almost 20 years ago, I was having the most memorable experience of my university years.  I was studying Old English and found my mind and heart stirred by the early medieval story of Caedmon’s hymn . Caedmon is an awkward, tongue tied cowherd who is too shy to recite poetry at the local pub. One night an angel visits Caedmon in a dream and commands him to sing a song. He wakes up with the words of the first recorded poem in English rolling off his tongue, about the creation of the world. In my fourth year of university I found myself similarly commanded. I wrote a poem as the final course project, and over the next year and a half it turned into an honours thesis. Working on my long poem was the most profound and glorious experience of my life thus far. Caedmon came into my life to give it a direction: of that I was sure. I did the best I could back then, both on the undergrad project and on the next two decades of adventure and growth. But if it was God questioning me through this story (and I wonder that seriously), did I have the full vocabulary in my youth to give an answer? I remember sitting in my advisor’s office trying to say I wanted to explore the relationship between Caedmon and God, but I became painfully embarrassed and couldn’t find the words. Despite the ecstatic nature of my personal experience, my poem was carefully secular though composed with all the love I could muster. What was I afraid of? I still can’t answer that.  If I had had a faith tradition to turn to, would I have had more confidence?

Of course, I am speculating about all these things, and very optimistically.  It is equally possible for organized religion to go wrong, to disappoint, to be destructive. And indeed, that is the side of it I know most about.

But even as I wondered about missed opportunities in the past, and acknowledged the feelings of curiosity and regret that followed, another thought swiftly overtook the first.  I am an adult now, with plenty of life still ahead (I assume) and the capacity to make decisions and set a direction. I do not need to be restrained by past fears or doubts. I can evolve. I can ask questions and seek answers. 

And indeed I have a responsibility to ask what sort of adult I should be, and to update the answer based on my most recent experience and insight. It is true that I had bad experiences with organized religion as a child. I saw and experienced the damage it did to my immediate and extended family.  I felt the difference between my personal experience of God and what the collective told me I should experience. All this is real. But as I participated in the service amid the light and the song, I thought I am not meant to be a cynical, fearful, defensive person. I am not meant to be the hurt, confused and frightened child that the cynical person is trying to protect. I can acknowledge that frightened child and respect that part of my experience without needing to BE that person for the rest of my life.  Because there is more to me. I have experienced beauty and truth. I have reached out and found the best in people. I have experienced the miracles of my own children, their perfect bodies and souls. There is so much that is good and expansive and joyful that I cannot and should not deny. But, I admit I need help. I don’t think I can be the person I am meant to be on my own.