I’ve been reading a novel, Ruby, by Cynthia Bond. It portrays the worst of humanity. And madness. Lots of insanity is generated by the way people treat each other. There seems to be no end to the cruelty. (It is a difficult read emotionally, but it casts light on how the past creates the present and future.)
This brings me to identity and the role of the personal narrative that causes my own madness. Sitting in bed on this cold snowy morning, I hear the furnace pushing warm air through the vents. Otherwise, it is quiet in the house. A few cars, even a bicycle, go by the house. The plants are green in the window, giving some sense of Life beyond this Winter. The light creates shadows in the folds of the covers of the bed. It is quiet between thoughts played out in stories of my life and others, including the novel I have been reading. My life story isn’t important. There is a full space that doesn’t require the story to exist. And yet, I keep wondering if that is really possible to sustain. We build this story on top of the material world that we perceive. Thought hangs onto the description of the past to prove we have been around and have had experiences and relationships with others. And this time-based narrative gives us what we call a Life. My Life. Get a Life! If my narrative isn’t interesting enough, I can grab onto yours, or one packaged for me in a novel, a movie, or the news. This is a stronger proof of existence than just sitting quietly and watching and listening and feeling, with nothing needed to be remembered about the present moment. In the thought-based story, images, words, and emotions are all tangled together to bring one back to another time and place. It’s readymade internal entertainment that is free, and we don’t have to go anywhere or plug ourselves into any device. It turns itself on and off. Dreaming while awake.
People talk about creating memories for later in their lives. To remember, to relive. That is seen to be valuable, an accumulation of experience to reexperience when sitting in bed on a snowy day. But we don’t give the possibility that to be where we are with nothing mentally tugging at us, would also be valuable. To expand the world with other people’s stories seems important. But is it really? It is hard to know. Everything that can be experienced is possible for Life, but is it necessary? Are we missing out if we don’t take in what we can? One hundred books to read before you die. Ten places to visit in your life. Get it done before you don’t have time anymore. Well, what if you do or don’t? Have you made a big mistake, something you will regret when “you” are dead? Will you be judged because you didn’t perform by accumulation or production? Who’s judging and why? Will you get to the end of Life and realize you played it all wrong? It should have been more. It should have been less. Do I remember all that has happened? What do I not remember? Have I forgotten what was really important, as opposed to what meant very little?
When people die, it is as if they have dropped out of the story. No longer participating, no longer actors in the drama. Were they ever really there? You hold onto the story where they appear, but you can’t hold onto them. Again, it is like a dream. You might go back to the dream, hoping for some understanding, but still, there are missing aspects of the story. My parents took big details of their story with them. I couldn’t get to it before they died. They wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t know what to ask. It seemed that it might make a difference to how I interpreted their role and impact on me, but the information is gone. And it doesn’t matter unless I am trying to construct an explanation, a narrative of who I am and why I am that way. And what does that have to do with being alive now? Why is that so strong for humans?
Storymaking and meaning seem like something Life allows, even promotes through thought, language, and creative expression. No point in denying that. But have we also got it wrong in some ways? In ways that distort other ways of being? In ways that cover over, obstruct a quieter way of being in the world?
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