2025-01-11 08:47:39
The only thing more dangerous than wanting to save another person — a dangerous desire too often mistaken for love — is wanting to save yourself, to spare yourself the disappointment and heartbreak and loss inseparable from being a creature with hopes and longings constantly colliding with reality, with the indifference of time and chance, with the opposing hopes and longings of others.
We have, of course, always invented institutions of salvation — religion to save us from our sins, therapy to save us from our traumas, marriage to save us from our loneliness — in order to salve our suffering, which is the price we pay for the fulness of living. And salve it we must, yet there is no damnation greater than spending our allotted days in the catatonia of comfort and certainty, our inner lives automated by habit and halogen lit by convenience. To try to save ourselves from the despair by which we contour hope, to spare ourselves the fertile doubt and the gasps of self-surprise by which we discover who we really are, is to live a safe distance from alive.
That is what the Uruguayan novelist, journalist, and poet Mario Benedetti (September 14, 1920–May 17, 2009) explores in his astonishing poem “No Te Salves” — part indictment, part invitation, reminding us that we most often break our hearts on the hard edges of our own fear of living, on the parts of us so petrified that they have become brittle to the touch of life, the touch of love.
Since I didn’t feel that the standard English translation quite captures the urgency and intimacy of the original language, I have translated it anew. It is read here in the original Spanish by my friend Karen Maldonado (who introduced me to the poem), in English and Bulgarian by me, and in Russian by my mother (who translated it into Russian and our native Bulgarian), to the sound of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 4 in E-Flat Major.
NO TE SALVES
por Mario BenedettiNo te quedes inmóvil
al borde del camino
no congeles el júbilo
no quieras con desgana
no te salves ahora
ni nunca
no te salves
no te llenes de calma
no reserves del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
no dejes caer los párpados
pesados como juicios
no te quedes sin labios
no te duermas sin sueño
no te pienses sin sangre
no te juzgues sin tiempopero si
pese a todo no puedes evitarlo
y congelas el júbilo
y quieres con desgana
y te salvas ahora
y te llenas de calma
y reservas del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
y dejas caer los párpados
pesados como juicios
y te secas sin labios
y te duermes sin sueño
y te piensas sin sangre
y te juzgas sin tiempo
y te quedas inmóvil
al borde del camino
y te salvas
entonces
no te quedes conmigo.
DO NOT SPARE YOURSELF
by Mario Benedetti
translated by Maria PopovaDon’t stand motionless
by the side of the road
don’t petrify your joy
don’t desire with reserve
do not spare yourself now
or ever
do not spare yourself
don’t fill up on tranquility
don’t claim from the world
only a quiet corner
don’t let your eyelids fall
heavy as judgments
don’t remain lipless
don’t fall asleep unready to dream
don’t think yourself bloodless
don’t deem yourself out of timebut if
in spite of it all you can’t help it
and petrify your joy
and desire with reserve
and spare yourself now
and fill up on tranquility
and claim from the world
only a quiet corner
and let your eyelids fall
heavy as judgments
and remain lipless
and fall asleep unready to dream
and think yourself bloodless
and deem yourself out of time
and stand motionless
on the side of the road
and you have been spared
then
do not stay with me.
НЕ СЕ ЩАДИ
Марио Бенедети
превод от Лилия ПоповаНе стой неподвижно
край пътя
не вкаменявай радостта си
не желай неохотно
не се щади сега
и никога
не се щади
не се изпълвай с покой
не искай от света само едно тихо кътче
не позволявай на клепачите ти да паднат,
тежки като присъди
не оставай беззвучен
не заспивай без сънища
не се мисли за безсилен
не се съди без времено ако
все пак не успееш
и вкамениш радостта си
и желаеш неохотно
и се щадиш сега
и си изпълнен с покой
и искаш от света само едно тихо кътче
и позволиш клепачите ти да паднат,
тежки като присъди
и останеш беззвучен
и заспиваш без сънища,
и се мислиш за безсилен,
и се съдиш без време
и стоиш неподвижно край пътя
и си пощаден
тогава
не оставай с мен.
НЕ ЩАДИ СЕБЯ
Марио Бенедети
перевод Лилии ПоповойНе стой тихо на краю дороги
не загораживай свою радость
не желай с неохотой
не щади себя сейчас
и никогда
не щади себя
не исполняйся покоем
не проси у мира только тихий уголок
не дай опускаться векам твоим,
тяжелыми, как приговор
не оставайся безмолвным
не усыпай без снов
не думай, что безсилен
не суди себя без временино если
однако не сможеш
и загораживаешь свою радость
и желаеш с неохотой
и щадишь себя сейчас и навсегда
и исполнен покоем
и просишь у мира только тихий уголок
и даеш опускаться векам своим,
тяжелыми, как приговор
и остаешься безмолвным
и засыпаешь без снов
и думаешь, что ты бессилен
и судишь себя без времени
и стоишь тихо на краю дороги
и щадишь себя
тогда
не оставайся со мной.
For seventeen years, I have been spending hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars each month composing The Marginalian (which bore the outgrown name Brain Pickings for its first fifteen years). It has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, no assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider lending a helping hand with a donation. Your support makes all the difference.
The Marginalian has a free weekly newsletter. It comes out on Sundays and offers the week’s most inspiring reading. Here’s what to expect. Like? Sign up.
2025-01-10 04:16:28
One of the paradoxes of being alive is that it is often through the extremes of sensation, through the shock of having a body, that we come most proximate to the subtleties of the soul. Walt Whitman knew this: “If the body is not the soul,” he sang electric, “what is the soul?” William James knew it: “A purely disembodied emotion is a nonentity,” he wrote in his pioneering theory of how our bodies affect our feelings. You and I know it, perhaps know it daily: Few things ensoul us more readily than a hot shower.
Having spent swaths of my childhood without hot water, I never take a hot shower for granted, and it is by not taking the mundane for granted that we contact the miraculous — the shimmering unlikeliness of this water world adrift amid the cold austerity of spacetime just the right distance from its star to neither freeze nor evaporate, the unfaltering fundamental laws that keep the entire orrery in motion, the miracle of the human mind and its immense Rube Goldberg machine of ideation, thoughts setting thoughts into motion across lifetimes and civilizations, to give us tile and the electric heater, pipes and the hydraulic pump. There is, after all, no way around John Muir’s observation that “when we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe” — for the moment we relish the tiniest miracle, we partake of the total miracle. And is there a better way to start a day, or to end one, than awash in the miraculous?
That is what Brian Doyle, patron saint of the miraculous, explores in one of the short, exultant pieces collected in his Book of Uncommon Prayer: 100 Celebrations of the Miracle & Muddle of the Ordinary (public library).
Under the heading “Prayer in Celebration of the Greatest Invention Ever, the Wicked Hot Shower,” he writes:
O God help me bless my soul is there any pleasure quite so artless and glorious and simple and unadorned and productive and restorative as a blazing hot shower when you really really want a hot shower? When you are not yet fully awake, when you are wiped from two hours of serious basketball, when you are weary and speechless after trip or trauma? Thank You, Inventiveness, for making a universe where there is water, and heat, and nozzles, and towels, and steam, and hairbrushes, and razors for cutting that line that distinguishes your beard from your chest, and toothbrushes. Thank You most of all, Generosity, for water. Deft invention, water. Who would have ever thought to mix hydrogen and oxygen so profligately? Not us. But it is everything we are. It falls freely from the sky. It carries us and our toys and joys. It is clouds and mist and fog and sleet and breath. There is no sweeter more crucial food… And so: amen.
Couple with another prayerful exultation in a simple pleasure — Rose Macaulay on the pleasure of being left alone — then revisit Brian Doyle on how to live a miraculous life.
For seventeen years, I have been spending hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars each month composing The Marginalian (which bore the outgrown name Brain Pickings for its first fifteen years). It has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, no assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider lending a helping hand with a donation. Your support makes all the difference.
The Marginalian has a free weekly newsletter. It comes out on Sundays and offers the week’s most inspiring reading. Here’s what to expect. Like? Sign up.
2025-01-08 08:45:42
The year is 1174.
Gravity, oxygen, and electricity have not been discovered.
Clocks, calculus, and the printing press have not been invented.
Earth is the center of the universe, encircled by heavenly bodies whose motions are ministered by angels.
Most people never live past their thirties.
Medicine abides by the Greek theory of the humors and treats all ailments with a combination of bloodletting, herbal tinctures, amputation, and the King’s Touch.
No university will educate a woman. In fact, no university exists.
At seventy-six, Hildegard of Bingen — poet, painter, healer, composer, philosopher, mystic, medical writer — has just finished writing and illustrating her third and farthest-seeing book: The Book of Divine Works, chronicling seven years of prophetic visions. God had first begun speaking to her in “the voice of the Living Light” when she was three, but she never suffered the hubris of a self-appointed prophet — rather, she considered herself “a totally uneducated human being,” a “wretched and fragile creature,” who is merely a channel for divine wisdom. She may be the Western world’s first great crusader against dualism — in the sermons she delivered to priests, bishops, abbots, and ordinary people all over present-day Germany and Switzerland, she preached that “God is Reason,” that “Reason is the root” from which “the resounding Word blooms,” but also that “from the heart comes healing,” that we apprehend the world and its wisdom most clearly through the intuitions of the “inner eye” and “inner ear.”
Hildegard was fifty-six when she began receiving the vision that would become her Book of Divine Works. On its pages, between writings about birds and trees and stones and stars, between reckonings with the nature of eternity and the fundaments of love, she conceptualizes something the word for which would not be coined for another seven centuries: ecology.
Long before Alexander von Humboldt invented modern nature with his recognition that “in this great chain of causes and effects, no single fact can be considered in isolation,” before John Muir insisted that “when we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe,” Hildegard places at the center of her cosmology the notion of viriditas, from the Latin for “green” — a greening life-force pervading the world, mirrored in the virtues that enlush the soul.
Human beings, she writes, are “co-creators with God” in the operations of nature. We must cooperate with one another in the task of protecting and nourishing this interconnected creation, and we must do so by integrating the rational and the intuitive in us. Hildegard’s human being is “the fragile vessel where soul and reason are active,” filled with “the fullness of time.”
In one of her visions, collected in the wonderful translation Hildegard of Bingen’s Book of Divine Works: With Letters and Songs (public library), she paints a menacing picture of a world in which we have grown disconnected from the greening life-force of our own souls. Seven centuries before Eunice Newton Foote discovered greenhouse gasses, and an epoch before we had any sense of climate change or our own hand in it, Hildegard prophecies:
Then the greening power of the virtues faded away, and all justice entered upon a period of decline. As a result, the greening power of life on Earth was reduced in every seed because the upper region of the air was altered in a way contrary to its first destiny. Summer now became subject to a contradictory chill while winter often experienced a paradoxical warmth. There occurred on Earth times of drought and dampness… As a result, many people asserted that the Last Day was near at hand.
She was unambiguous about what stands between us and such fate:
If… we give up the green vitality of [our] virtues and surrender to the drought of our indolence, so that we do not have the sap of life and the greening power of good deeds, then the power of our very soul will begin to fade and dry up.
And yet Hildegard believed in “the green vitality of human volition,” believed that “the soul knows what is good and what is harmful.” By integrating our rational faculty with our heart-honed intuition, by refusing to dishonor our own souls, we have within us the power to revivify this Earth. It what may be the clearest, most succinct manifesto for climate action, she writes:
Our thinking affects our greening power… The soul is the green life-force of the flesh… When we humans work in accord with the strivings of our soul, all our deeds turn out well.
This, indeed, is the beating heart of Hildegard’s viriditas: the insistence that the stewardship of Earth’s life-force is not merely our moral obligation to the universe but our spiritual duty to our own souls. And this can only be so — the words holy and whole share a Latin root; if an ecological conscience is a way of seeing the world whole, it is a way of seeing its holiness, of seeing our own holiness — not above it, but nested within it. Rachel Carson knew this when, picking up Hildegard’s torch eight centuries later to catalyze the modern environmental movement, she observed that “there is in us a deeply seated response to the natural universe, which is part of our humanity,” that the task now before humanity is “to prove its maturity and its mastery — not of nature, but of itself.” It was Hildegard who gave us the original model of poetic ecology.
For seventeen years, I have been spending hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars each month composing The Marginalian (which bore the outgrown name Brain Pickings for its first fifteen years). It has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, no assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider lending a helping hand with a donation. Your support makes all the difference.
The Marginalian has a free weekly newsletter. It comes out on Sundays and offers the week’s most inspiring reading. Here’s what to expect. Like? Sign up.
2025-01-05 07:27:53
Nothing magnifies life — in the proper sense of the word, rooted in the Latin for “to make greater, to glorify” — more than the act of noticing its details, and nothing sanctifies it more: Kneeling to look at a lichen is a devotional act. We bless our own lives by recognizing and reverencing the details, the miniature marvels that make this improbable world what it is. And yet consciousness evolved to filter them out, to blur them into more abstract pictures we can parse, to sieves relevance from reality in order to save us from being too wonder-smitten by the flickering morning light on the edge of the kitchen sink and the iridescent eye of the house fly to move through our days. Cognitive scientists know this necessary ailment of consciousness: “Right now, you are missing the vast majority of what is happening around you,” Alexandra Horowitz wrote in one of my favorite books, examining the “intentional, unapologetic discriminator” that is attention. Poets know the remedy: “Attention without feeling,” Mary Oliver wrote, “is only a report.”
Paying conscious attention, then, is our primary instrument of loving the world, abiding by Iris Murdoch’s splendid definition of love as “the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real.” But because nothing abstract is real except mathematics, because love is made of the particular and the specific, to love anything — a person, a planet, your life — is at bottom a practice of noticing, which is always a devotional practice.
In The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year (public library), Margaret Renkl chronicles her own reverence of reality across the seasons through the small acts of attention to wind and wren, to hemlock and hawk, which together reveal the grandeur of life. Partway between Henry Beston’s The Outermost House and Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss, what emerges is an invitation to override the mindless inertia that gets us through our days and pause to notice the details as a kind of mindfulness practice that magnifies the world.
She opens with a guided reverie under the tenderly commanding heading “Wherever You Are, Stop What You’re Doing”:
Stop and look at the tangled rootlets of the poison ivy vine climbing the locust tree. Notice the way they twist around each other like plaits in a golden braid, like tendrils of seaweed washed to shore…
Stop and ponder the skeleton of the snakeroot plant, each twig covered in tiny brown stars. The white petals, once embraced by bees, have dried to powder and now dust the forest floor, but here are the star-shaped sepals that held those fluffs of botanical celebration…
Stop and listen to the ragged-edged beech leaves, pale specters of the winter forest. They are chattering ghosts, clattering amid the bare branches of the other hardwoods. Wan light pours through their evanescence and burnishes them to gleaming. Deep in the gray, sleeping forest, whole beech trees flare up into whispering creatures made of trembling gold.
Stop and consider the deep hollows of the persimmon’s bark, the way the tree has carved its own skin into neat rectangles of sturdy protection. See how the lacy lichens have found purchase in the channels, sharing space in the hollows…
Stop and peer at the hummingbird nest, smaller than your thumb, in the crook of the farthest reach of an oak branch. Remember the whir of hummingbird wings. Remember the green flash of hummingbird light.
In a sentiment evocative of Ursula K. Le Guin’s spare and haunting poem “Kinship,” Renkl adds:
Stop and think for a time about kinship. Think for a long time about kinship. The world lies before you, a lavish garden. However hobbled by waste, however fouled by graft and tainted by deception, it will always take your breath away. We were never cast out of Eden. We merely turned from it and shut our eyes. To return and be welcomed, cleansed and redeemed, we are only obliged to look.
It may be that pausing to look is indeed our moral obligation to the universe — the ultimate affirmation of being alive, repaying our debt of gratitude for the supremely statistically improbable miracle of having been born at all, which makes the practice of noticing our mightiest antidote to the fear of death.
For Renkl, this suddenly becomes more than a philosophical disposition — in the final weeks of her yearlong chronicle, as autumn is lulling the living world into a state of suspended animation, a routine medical screening fissures the denial of death by which we survive our lives. When the biopsy comes back negative, Renkl readily recognizes that “such news is only ever a reprieve.” She writes:
Maybe it was the sudden sense of death dislodged, however temporarily, that made me look at the small, seasonal deaths around me with a feeling of kinship. Fallen leaves soften the path I walk on, but not for my sake. The leaves fall to feed the trees, to shelter the creatures who are essential to this forest in a way that I will never be. The misty rain unstiffens deadwood, making places for nesting woodpeckers to excavate next spring. I can stop to count the rings of shelf fungi on a dead tree and know how long they have been growing, how long the death of the tree has been feeding the life of the forest.
So much life springs from all this death that to spend time in the woods is also to contemplate immortality. On the way out of the park I passed a red-tailed hawk lying at the base of a power pole, apparently electrocuted, its perfect wing extended in death. The vultures were already beginning to circle as I passed. I drove on, knowing what would come next, what always comes next: death to life, earth to air, wing to wing.
Death has always been the blood in the veins of life, coursing through it at every scale and in every season, but winter renders it especially palpable with its skeletal branches encoding the Braille promise of spring in the tiny dormant buds already preparing for the next emerald incarnation. Renkl writes:
[Winter] reminds us that the membrane between life and death is permeable, an endless back and forth that makes something of everything, no matter how small, no matter how transitory. To be impermanent is only one part of life. There will always be a resurrection.
Complement The Comfort of Crows, a vivifying read in its entirety, with The Paradise Notebooks — a poet and a geographer’s love letter to life lensed through a 90-mile passage through the Sierra Nevada — and Katherine May on what wintering trees teach us about self-renewal through difficult times, then revisit philosopher Iain McGlilchrist on attention as an instrument of love.
For seventeen years, I have been spending hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars each month composing The Marginalian (which bore the outgrown name Brain Pickings for its first fifteen years). It has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, no assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider lending a helping hand with a donation. Your support makes all the difference.
The Marginalian has a free weekly newsletter. It comes out on Sundays and offers the week’s most inspiring reading. Here’s what to expect. Like? Sign up.
2024-12-31 23:46:14
It is good, I feel, to begin a new year, or a new day, with a little reservoir of gladness. Here are some gladnesses I have gathered, and two new bird divinations I have made, as a conscious way of consecrating our days with the blessed fact that we weren’t promised any of this — that the universe didn’t owe us mountains and music, that we didn’t have to be born, and yet here we are with our physics and our poems and our ever-breaking, ever-broadening hearts.
Bless the last aspen leaf, waving at the tip of the skeletal branch like a bright yellow flag of resistance to gravity and time, beckoning an allegiance to life.
Bless gravity for how indiscriminately it gives itself to a mote of dust and to a mountain, for how it keeps every single celestial body in orbit for this perfect cosmos to cohere, for how it presses your lover’s body against you to gladden the skin of the soul.
Bless the person who broke your heart to keep their own from breaking on the hard edge of the courage called love.
Bless paper for the way it can kindle a campfire and a revolution, for the delicious confusion of cedar and velvet at the tip of your finger each time you turn the page, for its whispered promise that when all the empires of silicon and bit go the way of Babylon and Rome, it will remain the keeper of our stories.
Bless table tennis for its absurd delight, for the boyish smile on the wrinkled face of the man at the rec center as he props his cane against the wall to pick up the paddle.
Bless blue, for making the bluebird and the sky it flies through what they are.
Bless consciousness, for making blue different to me than it is to you.
Bless mathematics for giving a ballot its weight and Bach his Goldberg Variations.
Bless the clouds, the way they drift across the sky like the thought bubbles of birds, the way they cast a spell against indifference each time they awn the setting sun.
Bless chance for how, across the billions upon billions of tiny and terrific events stretching all the way back to the first particle collisions in the first stars, events each one of which could have gone differently, it sang the bright clear note of you over the din of otherwise.
Bless time, for how despite all its blessed and blessing indifference, it gave the aspen leaf that little extra bit to blaze and gave us, each and every one of us alive, this symphonic interlude between the eternal silence of not yet and never again.
Bless the stranger at the bookstore who suddenly smiles the smile, the exact smile, of my dead friend, as if to remind me that nothing we love is ever dead, that love is the smile that saves life from mere existence.
Bless every grain of sand that made the glass that made binoculars to reveal the cormorant’s dazzling rimmed eye the color of Uranus and telescopes to reveal the nebula three thousand lightyears away looking back at us like a giant cosmic iris with its secret knowledge of what we are.
Bless knowledge, all the species of it — how the small black seed knows to break into the Fibonacci spiral of a sunflower, how we know that when the house burns down and the tyrant takes office and the toe pokes through the last good sock, we still have each other.
For seventeen years, I have been spending hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars each month composing The Marginalian (which bore the outgrown name Brain Pickings for its first fifteen years). It has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, no assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider lending a helping hand with a donation. Your support makes all the difference.
The Marginalian has a free weekly newsletter. It comes out on Sundays and offers the week’s most inspiring reading. Here’s what to expect. Like? Sign up.
2024-12-31 09:03:53
In every creative life, in every life of passion and purpose, there comes a time when the animating spark grows dim and the muscle of motivation slackens, when you come to feel benumbed to beauty and abandoned by your numen, suffocating in the exhaust fume of your own exertion, ossified with the tedium of being yourself.
We call those moments burnout, and we feel them most acutely as we approach the final horizon of a project, a year, a chapter of life. And yet, just as breakdowns can deepen our self-knowledge and despair can invite the sacred pause preceding regeneration, burnout can become the hearth of change — that urgent and necessary change without which the lulling inertia of our lives would always keep us a short distance from alive.
This secret Promethean power of burnout is what poet and philosopher David Whyte explores in one of the short, searching essays collected in his Consolations II — the continuation of his earlier emotional dictionary defining the deeper and often ineffable meanings of everyday words, which was among my favorite books of the year.
In the entry for the word burnout, he writes:
Burnout feels like a living central absence, not only of a centre, but the sources that used to rise from that centre.
The exhaustion of burnout always recalls a previously felt internal fire, one from which our unquenchable energies once emerged. Burnout denotes a kind of amnesia: not only in the forgetting of our very personal priorities but the inability to locate a source inside us that previously seemed to run through all the seasons of our life. This loss of a fiery essential centre is also experienced as a loss of faith: a form of forgetting, not only that the source actually existed inside me in the first place but that I might not now ever remember how to drink from it again.
Not unlike existential boredom, of which it is the mirror image, burnout is a misapprehension of time, a failure to trust its ever-undulating flow toward the ever-shifting horizon of the possible. Because we are temporal creatures who only have four thousand weeks to spend our two billion allotted heartbeats, mistrusting time is mistrusting life itself. In a sentiment evocative of Wendell Berry’s celebration of the sabbath as a radical act of resistance, David writes:
Burnout always involves a loss of the timeless and therefore of the ability to rest. Burnout, in a very profound way, is a loss of friendship with time itself… the experience of feeling continually out of season… In the loss of faith in existence itself, we refuse, in a kind of symmetrical sympathy, to fully exist ourselves. Being out of season with the outside world means we also miss our own inner, creative, tidal comings and goings.
Because burnout often results from the invisible wear-and-tear of gliding along the vector of exertion toward a dream we have long outgrown, at its heart is a beckoning to conjure up that most difficult, most rewarding kind of courage — the courage to change our minds and change our lives, to break down the structure of the self in order to imagine it afresh — a process so discomposing, given our paradoxical resistance to transformation, that we may only be able to enter it through the attic of the unconscious. David writes:
Burnout calls for creative breakdown, either in submitting to unconscious self-sabotage, the way that disasters large and small seem to track our exhausted burned-out self on a daily basis, the way we actually create those disasters unknowingly ourselves, trying to make a break for freedom or to create a conscious creative breakdown. Burnout is often as much the resistance to making these changes as being worn down by what we cannot seem to change: all the ways I find it impossible to leave the job, or leave the relationship; all the ways I find it impossible to change my approach to work, or all the ways I need to simply learn to love again must be looked at and allowed to break down and fall away.
Observing that burnout is “a loss of friendship with a very personal sense of the unknown” — that lovely capacity for self-surprise which makes life worth living and allows us to reinvent ourselves — he adds:
Burnout fully realised is also the decisive, exhausted moment in which we realise we cannot go on in the same way.
Not being able to go on, is always in the end, a creative act, the threshold moment of our transformation away from physical exhaustion. Not being able to go on is the beginning of a proper relationship with the timeless and the healing possibilities of timelessness: healing ourselves from burnout always involves a reacquaintance with the eternal: my ability to experience the timeless is a parallel to my ability to rest.
Ultimately, burnout is the pathology of doing in the psyche of being, the only remedy for which is to rest into the primal knowledge that there was never anything to prove with all that exertion, never anything to redeem with all that punitive pursuit of your culture’s or your parents’ or your idols’ ideas about what makes a life worth living.
Echoing Willa Cather’s spare and timeless definition of happiness, David writes:
The foundation from which we transform the experience of burnout is always the realisation that we have been measuring all the wrong things in all the wrong ways and that we have for too long, mis-measured our sense of self in the same way; that we have allowed the shallow rewards of false goals or false people to mesmerise, bedazzle and entrain us: to hide from us an ancient and abiding human dynamic — that we belong to something greater and even better for us than the realm of the measured.
Complement these fragments of the wholly revivifying Consolations II with Alain de Botton on the importance of breakdowns, Katherine May’s potent salve for burnout, and John Gardner on the art of self-renewal, then revisit David Whyte on the relationship between anxiety and intimacy and this superb Where Shall We Meet conversation with him about language and life.
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