“What I want is to open up. I want to know what’s inside of me…I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous. I’m sure of it.”
-Henry Miller
The trouble of weariness is that it is a thief, and a good one. It robs us of energy, of clarity, of purpose. With one hand it presses on the back of our neck, keeping our view of the world low and narrow. With the other, it reaches out and pockets whatever we have left: our joy, our perspective, our imagination. Our lives are slowly poached of light, and with each day the burden on our shoulders only grows heavier. Whether we are aware of it or not, we begin to carry a weight that is impossible to bear alone.
I feel this weight in my body now, as I write. I am weary: weary of anger, of fear, of hatred. I am weary of watching us abandon each other, and ourselves. I grow stiff at the sight of stubbornness, of a refusal to change. The sneer of selfishness presses on me like a stone, the resolve of ignorance compressing my muscles. I am tired, lying at the bottom of my own well.
Perhaps what feels heaviest is not that these things exist “out there”, somewhere else in the world, but that they still lay within my own heart. I have not overcome anything which tires me, and so the world’s situation is my own. I cannot be separated from what wounds me, so where can I expect myself to go?
In my weariness I am tempted to admit that it is safe here, at least. I can remove my heart from the world, and say that it was other people who took it away. I can recede, withdraw, and claim that I am only protecting myself. I can go into silence, silence that looks for nothing and no one, a muffled quiet blocking out anything which might disturb an isolated, fragile peace.
When we are wearied by the world, when it seems that distress and resentment have claimed their victory, the chance to close the door on our heart is tantalizing. Why keep it open? What promises would compel us, what words could ever encourage us otherwise? It may seem like hoping for anything different was a fool’s errand all along, that we were right about each other. We’ll never get over our suspicion, our biases, our impulses to hurt and inflict pain. As we encircle ourselves in self-protection, we can at least be assured of safety.
It is these kinds of moments, moments in which light itself cannot seem to escape the gravity of pressure, that everything becomes possible. It may have looked like I was describing a hopeless situation, and we are paradoxically far from that. We are compressed, rage and violence pushing us deep into the earth, but not buried. If there is any danger, it is in staying still, in saying “yes” to the way in which weariness applies its weight.
A safety that comes from retreat, from giving up and giving in, is an enticing prospect. We can still have our lives, our comforts, our preferences, all without the interference of other people or the world at large. We can say that we did our best, and that things are now out of our hands. However the world unfurls itself is not really our problem anymore.
But this safety is not whole, and does not include the truth of ourselves. It is a safety patched together by the very same things we are hoping to avoid. This safety is angry, it is afraid, it is resentful and hostile and mean. It blames the world for failing, while ignoring that we continue to be involved. While we claim our withdrawal is looking out for ourselves, we add to the emotions and impulses that we wish would change. Our safety is built from our weariness, a castle made of sand.
If we look for wholeness expecting to be safe, we will not find it. Wholeness does not usher us away from the world, and will not shield us from what is painful and difficult. In other words, wholeness is not about safety, but about risk.
The challenges and stresses of our humanity, be it hatred, discrimination, or fear, are not risky attitudes or behaviors. They do risk the lives of others, but they do not risk the life of the individual. For example, we often refer to acts of violence as cowardly. Why? Because we understand that an act of violence lashes out, striking from a place of relative safety. The victim’s life and well-being has been risked completely: but the aggressor only commits violence when they feel safe enough to do so.
The same is true for ignorance, for indifference, for greed. These attitudes risk nothing because they fear the world, and how the world changes. Greed already knows its limitations, and therefore senses its own destruction. It is violent because of this knowledge, attacking the world out of its own insecurity. The desire to control, to consume, to be a master of all circumstances, is threatened in the natural movement of life. Any ‘safety’ found is an illusion, imposed at the expense of many.
On the other hand, change is inherently risky. We don’t know what will happen. Life is change, and so life is risky. Does this give us an excuse to be suspicious and hostile? No, and that is the secret doorway that wholeness calls us to pass through. Because wholeness embraces change, it also accepts our capacity to live with risk: not risk as “potential danger”, but risk as possibility itself.
What else is risky? Compassion, love, understanding, relationship: all of these things are risky, and risk embracing change each day. Why are they risky? Because they have no guarantees. They are not “safe” because they lack promises, assurances, guarantees.
Discrimination, for example, promises safety under the guise of a promise. As long as I distrust/hate/act against someone, or another group of people, I (or my group) will be safe. If I do this my entire life, no harm will come to me. In fact, if I increase my discrimination (such as through violence), I might even be able to guarantee safety even more quickly. The more people I hurt, or kill, or oppress, the safer I will become.
My open question is to consider how “safe” we really are when we live a life in this way. What is the quality of life in that smallness, that imprisoned heart? What hope, what movement, is to be found in waking up each day and reaching for a weapon, thinking about who we can hurt?
Instead, something like compassion just says “let’s see”. I think, at this time, nothing could be more important than that invitation. That is true risk, the risk of accepting the incredible, limitless potential of the human heart. There is no reward for being kind, there are no material benefits in forgiveness. Especially in a world that celebrates selfishness, we will not be acknowledged for generosity, or remembered for our grace. These actions risk everything, precisely because we might become someone different as a result. We step into the unknown, and trust that there is something there for us.
In recent days I have wondered about how much we actually know about understanding, of love, of kindness. I think we’ve hardly scratched the surface of what they can mean, what they can offer. These things are more than just attitudes, they are whole ways of being. They are the gateways into real safety, safety that only comes from embracing the risk of their action.
Our culture laughs at these qualities, scoffing at their seemingly simple and misguided intentions. So much of our attitude today pretends to know everything about them, without ever actually exploring. We claim that we’re smarter, more ‘realistic’ than whatever love and peace can show us. Although the harm is plain to see, we still believe that conflict and competition serve us better.
We may also say that it isn’t worth it. Kindness and compassion are risky because we can get burned for practicing them. People can take advantage of us, or ridicule our intentions. If the results of living like this are not immediately visible or rewarding, we might not understand how they add any value at all. Why invest for unknown gain when you can get rich quick?
I’m not sure how helpful these questions are, in the end. I don’t think they allow us to embrace risk, which is the path of wholeness itself. If we wish to be whole, if we wish for life to be whole, than we have to risk these experiences.
We cannot approach them if we are still held by doubt and confusion. To risk light is to risk not-knowing, to accept that we may not fully understand or bear witness to the results of our actions. We open the door, but we do not know who or what will step through it. Nevertheless, the opening means everything. To be the one who opens the door of their heart, even if the echoes of slamming doors reverberate around them: that is what wholeness calls us to be.
