Archipelagos
My maternal grandmother's favorite poem was John Donne's No Man Is an Island. As this grandmother passed away before my birth, I have spent a fair bit of my life trying to connect with her through things she loved: her favorite poem, her favorite book (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn), her love of opera, her kinship with the people of Hawaii and their music and dance (she was a school teacher there), and other things. I try to understand her through quilting, which was very important to her, but I just couldn't do that. It requires spatial reasoning, which I do not have.
The point being, I have pored over this poem a lot. I have come to the conclusion that many people don't understand this poem.
No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own
were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
I don't usually like poetry. I do enjoy this poem, though. The masterful use of enjambment before enjambment was really a thing aside, it has a fantastic sentiment. This is the concept of Black Lives Matter but in the 17th Century. As a Millennial, however, I know that the most common way to use quotes from literature these days is out of context, in memes, and incompletely. So, many people believe that this poem means that no one is alone--they only ever see the "No many is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent" part. With that information, they assume that it means that no one is alone. What it actually means is that the misfortunes and trials of others are the misfortunes and trials of you. This is the Sermon on the Mount, "willing to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort."
I was thinking about this misinterpretation of this poem, a lot when I was a Young Women's leader in my LDS ward. For those who are not familiar with the LDS structure, Young Women's is the organization for teenage girls. As a 22-year-old woman, I was tasked with being one of the leaders of the teenage girls. As I did this, there were several teenage girls who were the definition of angsty. I would try to get them to come into our activity from their pity-party in the hallway, and some of them would snap at me and tell me that I didn't understand, that no one here got them, and that they didn't want to go in there with all these people with great lives. There was a snotty part of me that wanted to say, "Well then go home. Why did you come at all if you were going to sit here in the hallway and mope? If you want to decorate cupcakes, come in here and decorate the gosh-darned cupcakes. If you don't want to decorate cupcakes, then leave." But that's not very Christ-like (the whole mourn with those who mourn bit), so I would talk with them. At first, I would listen patiently and say, "That would be hard. I see you feel that you don't identify with the other girls." They would tell me that I didn't get it with my perfect little life where everyone loved me. I found it a little presumptuous to assume that I'd had a perfect little life. I mean, my life has been fairly peachy, but I know people who are just like me for whom that isn't true.
On about the third conversation of this type, I started to say, "You're right. I don't understand. But Christ does. If you'd like to accept His understanding, He will help you." Eventually, I added the phrase, "I don't understand, but I'd like to have empathy. Help me to do that; explain to me."
After probably the twelfth conversation like this, I made a realization and changed my tactic. As soon as they went into the whole, "No one understands what it's like to be me," I said, "You're right. No one understands you. Stop pretending that that makes you unique."
I've actually found this technique to be effective with most teenagers.
This isn't to say that the other things that I would say weren't true, or don't have value in them learning. And I still use those tactics at different times when counseling with teens (I also run a summer camp...so I get to work with teens a fair bit). But I found that this is what shocks them out of the inherent self-absorption. "What do you mean?" they ask.
This is what I mean: Everyone on this entire planet is utterly and entirely alone.
Perhaps that sounds despairing, but it's actually beautiful. Hear me out. With the exception of Christ, no one understands anyone else. Even two people who experience the exact same thing process it differently--because of their brain chemistry, because of their past experiences, because of the differences in their anatomy, because one of them had more or less sleep at the time, because of their personalities. No one truly understands anyone else.
All we have is empathy.
Empathy. I learned this word when I was in sixth grade. I'm sure I'd heard it before, but I didn't know what it meant. Empathy. The ability to try and understand another person.
I have never been very good at empathy. Last year, I read this book called The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison. It's a series of essays about empathy. Some of the essays were amazing, some were mediocre, but one of the aspects that I really liked about it was when she put forth this idea: The most empathetic thing you can do is acknowledge that you can't understand. There is a profound amount of respect in acknowledging that someone is their own person. That their feelings are their own. That their feelings are unique. And that you, as a separate entity, are wholly and entirely incapable of being them.
But there's a beauty in the outreach. This makes the moments when we manage to touch one another all the more beautiful. It as though we are planets on separate orbits who just managed to eclipse one another, because the moments lined up perfectly. That's why it sometimes feels like people were just in the right place at the right time. Because the orchestration of our orbits passing feels impossible, but it's not. Those moments when we can reach others are fleeting and beautiful. Let's not ever miss one.
I think Dickens put it beautifully in his novel A Tale of Two Cities (one of my three favorite novels, if any of my grandchildren are seeking to understand me): "Every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other."
We are separate, we are not the same. And that's a beautiful thing. All that we have is empathy. And never underestimate that power. Because we can't understand. But when someone strives, it's usually enough. And when they touch, it's beautiful.
We are islands. Not in the way that Donne denied. We do matter to each other. No one is separate. But everyone is isolated. We are an archipelago. A series of separate islands who are still the same.
Solzhenitsyn (the best Russian writer. Sorry Dostoevsky, you know I love you, but there had to be someone who was the best, and Solzhenitsyn beat you), wrote an epic work entitled The Gulag Archipelago. If you want your heart to be ripped out of your chest, made more beautiful and then put back in, go read The Gulag Archipelago. It will be painful, but it will be worth it. It's named because that's actually how it was referred to. but Solzhenitsyn gives it a new meaning. To be suffering so collectively, but so individually. That's what it means to be an archipelago. We experience all the same things, but we are still alone. But we are still together. And that is a beautiful thing.
The point being, I have pored over this poem a lot. I have come to the conclusion that many people don't understand this poem.
No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own
were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
I don't usually like poetry. I do enjoy this poem, though. The masterful use of enjambment before enjambment was really a thing aside, it has a fantastic sentiment. This is the concept of Black Lives Matter but in the 17th Century. As a Millennial, however, I know that the most common way to use quotes from literature these days is out of context, in memes, and incompletely. So, many people believe that this poem means that no one is alone--they only ever see the "No many is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent" part. With that information, they assume that it means that no one is alone. What it actually means is that the misfortunes and trials of others are the misfortunes and trials of you. This is the Sermon on the Mount, "willing to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort."
I was thinking about this misinterpretation of this poem, a lot when I was a Young Women's leader in my LDS ward. For those who are not familiar with the LDS structure, Young Women's is the organization for teenage girls. As a 22-year-old woman, I was tasked with being one of the leaders of the teenage girls. As I did this, there were several teenage girls who were the definition of angsty. I would try to get them to come into our activity from their pity-party in the hallway, and some of them would snap at me and tell me that I didn't understand, that no one here got them, and that they didn't want to go in there with all these people with great lives. There was a snotty part of me that wanted to say, "Well then go home. Why did you come at all if you were going to sit here in the hallway and mope? If you want to decorate cupcakes, come in here and decorate the gosh-darned cupcakes. If you don't want to decorate cupcakes, then leave." But that's not very Christ-like (the whole mourn with those who mourn bit), so I would talk with them. At first, I would listen patiently and say, "That would be hard. I see you feel that you don't identify with the other girls." They would tell me that I didn't get it with my perfect little life where everyone loved me. I found it a little presumptuous to assume that I'd had a perfect little life. I mean, my life has been fairly peachy, but I know people who are just like me for whom that isn't true.
On about the third conversation of this type, I started to say, "You're right. I don't understand. But Christ does. If you'd like to accept His understanding, He will help you." Eventually, I added the phrase, "I don't understand, but I'd like to have empathy. Help me to do that; explain to me."
After probably the twelfth conversation like this, I made a realization and changed my tactic. As soon as they went into the whole, "No one understands what it's like to be me," I said, "You're right. No one understands you. Stop pretending that that makes you unique."
I've actually found this technique to be effective with most teenagers.
This isn't to say that the other things that I would say weren't true, or don't have value in them learning. And I still use those tactics at different times when counseling with teens (I also run a summer camp...so I get to work with teens a fair bit). But I found that this is what shocks them out of the inherent self-absorption. "What do you mean?" they ask.
This is what I mean: Everyone on this entire planet is utterly and entirely alone.
Perhaps that sounds despairing, but it's actually beautiful. Hear me out. With the exception of Christ, no one understands anyone else. Even two people who experience the exact same thing process it differently--because of their brain chemistry, because of their past experiences, because of the differences in their anatomy, because one of them had more or less sleep at the time, because of their personalities. No one truly understands anyone else.
All we have is empathy.
Empathy. I learned this word when I was in sixth grade. I'm sure I'd heard it before, but I didn't know what it meant. Empathy. The ability to try and understand another person.
I have never been very good at empathy. Last year, I read this book called The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison. It's a series of essays about empathy. Some of the essays were amazing, some were mediocre, but one of the aspects that I really liked about it was when she put forth this idea: The most empathetic thing you can do is acknowledge that you can't understand. There is a profound amount of respect in acknowledging that someone is their own person. That their feelings are their own. That their feelings are unique. And that you, as a separate entity, are wholly and entirely incapable of being them.
But there's a beauty in the outreach. This makes the moments when we manage to touch one another all the more beautiful. It as though we are planets on separate orbits who just managed to eclipse one another, because the moments lined up perfectly. That's why it sometimes feels like people were just in the right place at the right time. Because the orchestration of our orbits passing feels impossible, but it's not. Those moments when we can reach others are fleeting and beautiful. Let's not ever miss one.
I think Dickens put it beautifully in his novel A Tale of Two Cities (one of my three favorite novels, if any of my grandchildren are seeking to understand me): "Every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other."
We are separate, we are not the same. And that's a beautiful thing. All that we have is empathy. And never underestimate that power. Because we can't understand. But when someone strives, it's usually enough. And when they touch, it's beautiful.
We are islands. Not in the way that Donne denied. We do matter to each other. No one is separate. But everyone is isolated. We are an archipelago. A series of separate islands who are still the same.
Solzhenitsyn (the best Russian writer. Sorry Dostoevsky, you know I love you, but there had to be someone who was the best, and Solzhenitsyn beat you), wrote an epic work entitled The Gulag Archipelago. If you want your heart to be ripped out of your chest, made more beautiful and then put back in, go read The Gulag Archipelago. It will be painful, but it will be worth it. It's named because that's actually how it was referred to. but Solzhenitsyn gives it a new meaning. To be suffering so collectively, but so individually. That's what it means to be an archipelago. We experience all the same things, but we are still alone. But we are still together. And that is a beautiful thing.
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