into whose sphere i am venturing...

There is no other relation between human beings which makes such demands on one's ideality as does love, and yet love is never seen to have it. For this reason alone I would be afraid of love; for I fear that it might have the power to make me too talk vaguely about a bliss which I did not feel and a sorrow I did not have. I say this here since I am bidden to speak on love, though unacquainted with it I say this in surroundings which appeal to me like a Greek symposion; for I should otherwise not care to speak on this subject as I do not wish to disturb any one's happiness but, rather, am content with my own thoughts. Who knows but these thoughts are sheer imbecilities and vain imaginings perhaps my ignorance is explicable from the fact that I never have learned, nor have wished to learn, from any one, how one comes to love; or from the fact that I have never yet challenged a woman with a glance which is supposed to be smart but have always lowered my eyes, unwilling to yield to an impression before having fully made sure about the nature of the power into whose sphere I am venturing.
--Kierkegaard, In Vino Veritas (The Banquet) an excerpt from "The Young Person's Speech"

So much of the past thirty years seem to be in one way or another about becoming, and occasionally being, my self. "A self is always becoming. Being does mean becoming, but we run so fast that it is only when we seem to stop... that we are aware of our isness, of being" (L'Engle more from her later). Nothing earth-shattering in there, it just seemed appropriate for where I am going with this. Where am I going with this, anyway?

At some point in the not-to-distant past, I came to see I had become caught up in a kind of culture shock, realizing I am now another's other. Yet not knowing exactly what that ought to mean I occasionally find myself forced to pause on this notion of being an other while allowing another to be my other.

Tonight a thought came to me about clay. I imagined a lump of wet clay, certainly capable of being molded, shaped, changed from one form into another. Yet in itself, the clay has no animation at all. This makes clay an excellent way to contrast two forms of ontology: one which takes it's shape, form, isness entirely from it's creator, but implies another type of ontology which is much more animated, much richer because the form begins to take a life of it's own. L'Engle insists that "a bush certainly doesn't have the opportunity for prideful and selfish choices, for self-destruction, that we human beings do. It is." She calls this pure ontology, but in relating it to the human experience she insists "if I try self-consciously to become a person, I will never be one."

The people I know who are most concerned about their individuality, who probe constantly into motives, who are always turned inward toward their own reactions, usually become less and less individual, less and less spontaneous, more and more afraid of the consequences of giving themselves away.
--L'Engle, A Circle of Quiet

I think this is the most damning statement for me. I think I am constantly guilty of spending too much time examining myself, which she seems to insist is a form of hubris. I am reassured that she is also guilty, reminding herself that her intellect "is a stumbling block to much that makes life worth living: laughter; love; a willing acceptance of being created."

So if I transfer this self-examination to the notion of being an other (and of accepting the other as well), the paradox becomes all the more paralyzing. Should I be more as a lump of clay entirely at the whim of the artist or perhaps L'Engle's bush, only slightly more animated, but otherwise following a script of sorts and merely reacting to environmental stimulus, or am I to be more animated, more my own--and what effect does this have on the other? L'Engle offers this suggestion:

When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we also escape our self-conscious selves.

I like the first image most (perhaps because I relate to it much easier) in that we often forget how liberating it was to be a child. The other day I helped a small child dig ditches in the muddy road and enjoyed being silly for a change. I lament that I could not be entirely as he was, fully immersed in this project of sorts and the wonders that accompanied it. I was never completely unaware of how silly I looked playing in the mud as he must have been.

I think in childhood and through adolescence we are constantly becoming aware of the foolishness of yesterdays. We are hard on our not-far-removed selves and often it takes years--if not decades--to really have a sense of humor about the foolish things we did in our formative years (which of course never end... until perhaps death rescues us). Still, it is easy to make light of the foolish or silly acts or sayings of a child because we can forgive their ignorance--but is it really their ignorance we must forgive, or our own hubris? Our insistence on knowing all we can and analyzing everything to death! (literally)

Where was I going? Oh, full circle (which by the way, none of the L'Engle quotes are in the same order they would appear in her book, odd the way that worked!). I wanted to leave you with this (in other words, form your own conclusions!):

The deeper and richer a personality is, the more full it is of paradox and contradiction.

Why do you let me stay here? She & Him