Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Le paragraphe numero deux
"The discussion of age must always result in the tossing of hands and an exclamation of impossibility. For in a discussion between two, the advantages and disadvantages are evenly divided: half has lived further into their thread of years, while the other half has not yet been tainted by compromise or fatigue. Half have seen, and felt, and believed and disbelieved more than the other, while the other sees and feels and believes everything for the first time, all afresh. Half are filled with history and stand high on their accumulated years; the other is unweighted by time, still filling themselves with truth and ideas. How are we then to frame our speaking, when each half moves within their own strong lens and thier own strong netting of truth? We can't, perhaps."
I have no ideas on this question--and seeing as I'm currently in that state of overdoing the cutting of the cord to the family, I'd like to know what you think. (flatter me and ignore the grammar mistakes)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
A fascinating topic...Ever suspicious of "old" people who rely too heavily on their history, I have devoted myself to the attempt to see each experience as new--not really possible of course. Like removing the carrots from a bowl of soup with a strainer, though, I try to isolate the experiences in my history that were formatively or spiritually or connectively important, and then pour the rest down the drain (a bad metaphor--who saves carrots from their soup?) If one tries to hold on to too much of all that soup, he or she imperceptibly begins to romanticize it until it isn't even historically accurate any more ("you know, in my day, we never complained/respected our elders/walked ten miles to school uphill through the snow/whatever")--all that memory then becomes freezer-burned soup (okay, walking away from the tired metaphor now). The result is that these "old" people then view every new experience through this gunked-up filter so that they can no longer be counted on to offer a trustworthy assessment of it.
At the same time, however, the fresh half, the half who "sees and feels and believes everything for the first time," cannot possibly accurately imagine what the other half knows or has seen. Their minds are clearly more supple and imaginative, but as it is said, "there is no substitute for experience."
In the end, maybe it's about fighting entropy. Maybe the two halves can speak usefully to each other on the condition that each half chooses deliberately to acknowledge the strength of their own lens, as well as that of the other, and then agree to try as much as is possible to exchange lenses. Chaucer's Pardoner tells a story of an old man doomed to walk the earth never knowing the peace of death until he can find someone willing to exchange their youth for his age. I'm not really sure how this applies to the topic, but it is interesting to think about. Clearly the old man is in for a long walk--who would actually want to make that exchange? But underlying it, I guess, is the assumption that what the old man has to offer is not seen as worth the cost. So how do we avoid becoming old people with nothing useful to offer? I suppose the answer is given by those Benedictine nuns who have the lowest incidence of Alzheimer's for their age group because they play a game of chess every single day.
Sorry for the verbal diarrhea, but thanks for the great topic!
a beautiful description of a frustrating circumstance. I want to add something that this problem made me remember:
I think there is no hope unless there is respect.
From Erich Fromm in The Art of Love: "Respect is not fear and awe; it denotes, in accordance with the root of the word (respicere = to look at), the ability to see a person as he is, to be aware of his unique individuality. Respect means concern that the other person should grow and unfold as he is. Respect, thus, implies the absence of exploitation. I want the loved person to grow and unfold for his own sake, and in his own ways, and not for the purpose of serving me. If I love the other person, I feel one with him or her, but with him as he is, not as I need him to be as an object for my use. It is clear that respect is possible only if I have achieved independence; if I can stand and walk without needing crutches, without having to dominate and exploit anyone else. Respect exists only on the basis of freedom: "l'amour est l'enfant de la liberte" as an old French song says; love is the child of freedom, never of domination.
To respect a person is not possible without knowing him; care and responsibility would be blind if they were not guided by knowledge. Knowledge would be empty if it were not motivated by concern.”
I don't want to rest on the words of another, but I really like what he says about respect.
I know it does not really answer the question but...
Golly gee. Okay, well--to Mr C: Yes! I think that you offer a good analogy, and to me the idea of a filter especially is effective. I think my struggle is that I am wanting to step outside the filter completely, but this isn't really practical or possible, do you think? Maybe a step is to recognize the filter and factor it into your actions, then as time passes recognize the soupiness . . ? This is what I got from what you were saying; is it somewhere close?
To Mr EeBAHNyesz:
Argh, yes. I'm thinking now that I gave the wrong impression when we spoke. I DO love my parents, and I DO respect them, but I think it all breaks down to the fact that we see the world differently, and because I love them so much, I expect ALOT of them. I mean, I know that they have had great passion for life, and that they have done things that went against their familites, have accomplished many things other people would find impossible, have been strong and brave and have seen the world differently. The problem now is that I don't see this in them anymore, and I guess that creates in me such a strong disappointment and frustration. I love them and know they've lived beautifully--but you can't tell anymore!!! I am trying, I really am, to empathize with these things that seem like failure or giving up; I guess the best way to do this is by reminding myself of my own failures that occur on a daily basis, my own continuing failures and struggles that I'm sure are not as obvious as they feel. Does this make sense?
Well, thank you very much, gen'lmen. I've got alot to think about now.
Yes, I think you're exactly right--if the filter is made up of inter-woven experience, then to step outside the filter completely is to have no memory. On the other hand, there is a tendancy for old people to use the filter as some sort of safety net--like they forget that it is a thing to look through, so they use it instead as a thing to curl up and sleep on. Filters get clogged unless one is devoted to regularly cleaning them. My parents-in-law, for example, are so convinced that they have earned the right to rest, that their lives now consist of eliminating even the tiniest molecule of discomfort--physical, spiritual or otherwise. They seem so stinkin' OLD to me, not because they are that chronologically advanced, but because they just seem locked up in concrete, enslaved to an ever more restrictive set of tolerances. A little voice in the back of my head keeps clamoring, though: how dare I judge them for being tired as they near the end of so a long race? I can only hope that when I get to that part, I have enough light slipping through the filter to remind me what the race is all about...
Post a Comment