Growth

It could be that mid-winter weariness has me anticipating evidence of spring. Or it could be that mid-life has me pondering the vector of our current era of change. Perhaps recently renewed connections with college friends and childhood neighbors have me marveling at the meandering maturation of all people and all things. Whatever the reason, I find my attention drawn once again to the recurring and ubiquitous theme of growth.

Growth occurs naturally. That is not only obvious, but a virtual tautology; it is essentially true by definition. One can hardly imagine an investigation into the nature of persons and things without paying appropriate attention to the process by which they grow, develop, and change. Nature is known not so much for what it is, but for it is constantly becoming.

The contrarian may argue that decay is every bit as prevalent and significant a force as growth, and perhaps more so. Ask any person over forty how they have changed over the last ten years or so, and they will likely describe not emerging potential and expanding passion, but diminishing capacities and increasing constraints. (Or as my brother so kindly puts it, being long past the age of growing taller, I have more recently been "growing in a different direction.")

But over time, I have come to see growth and decay not as competing forces, nor as sequential events, but as parallel and complementary processes. Indeed, decay is not the enemy of growth at all, for old cells simply must die and fall away to allow space and resource for new cells to emerge. Creative destruction is frequently prerequisite for construction to be renewed. (Watching the old house being demolished is often the most entertaining part of "Extreme Home Makeover"!)

... (more to follow) ...

The idea I intended to pursue here was that something other than decay is the true enemy of growth. Themes of stagnation, petrification, barriers and blockage were bouncing around in my head. Three things have happened since yesterday that have redirected that train of thought.

First, the drive up I-65 bore graphic witness to the "creative destruction" of the ice storm that crushed Kentucky last week. The sight of large groves of mature trees reduced to splinters and spears, with ice weighing heavily on bent branches not yet broken, punctuated by passing utility trucks and relief vehicles, poked holes in my impertinent platitudes about the positive side of destruction.

Second, my young friend Tim (see comment below) brought in the timely theme of dormancy, with the equilibrium it represents and sustains. Rest is not my strong suit, and hibernation often appears to me indistinguishable from death; yet something about this notion nudges me, as if to alert and instruct me in a new way.

Third, I awoke to the remembrance that today marks the 56th anniversary of my best friend's birth, and I squirmed at the awkwardness of marking the birth of one now nearly six years deceased. A text exchange with his wife Carol (I'm still uneasy with "widow") revealed a similar symbolic struggle between her and their daughter, Cammie. Cammie continues to track and mark the age in years, while Carol has come to see Chuck as "frozen in time."

Those three images converge in one when I look out my kitchen window. There a leafless tree -- named "Chuck" because it was planted in the year of his death -- lies both bent and broken, encased in ice and overwhelmed with it's mass. I cannot yet know whether the shattered remnant of a trunk can again sustain life, whether new branches and leaves may ever again emerge and grow from that broken base.

But as the day slips past, the sun has shown itself, and the ice begins to melt. Nothing remains "frozen in time", except perhaps the still photographs in our minds. What has been concealed will be revealed; what I cannot know now I shall someday know fully. The equilibrium of dormancy distinguishes itself by being itself broken.

Even the dormancy of death.

Blasphemy

The construction of the human personality occurs without blueprints, plans, or schedules.

I doubt that the journals of Dr. Frankenstein would give much detail on the formation of disposition. Geneticists claim evidence of behavioral causation encoded in the DNA. Developmental psychologists discern deeply imbedded patterns of permanent parental conditioning. Therapists and evangelists engage strategies for programatic modification and transformational change. Accidents and activists trigger reflective interpretations and reconstructions of meaning and purpose. Indeed, Francis Galton, a pioneer in the field of behavioral science, exposed the debate of Nature vs. Nurture as "a convenient jingle of words, for it separates under two distinct heads the innumerable elements of which personality is composed."

Composed of innumerable elements, held together by more or less lasting adhesives, subject only sometimes and under the right circumstances to renovation and reform, human personality eludes our efforts to master it, yet remains malleable and vulnerable to a wide range of benevolent and malignant forces. Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) builds on the understanding that behavioral change is mediated by cognitive events: right thinking guides right doing. We may postulate that the inverse in also true. A pseudo-scientific outgrowth of behaviorism known as Affirmation Therapy centers its methodology on the powerful role of positive and negative reinforcement from a trusted mentor -- hardly a new concept, but a new context for the ancient appreciation of blessing and cursing.

But what of the untrusted mentor, the impostor impersonating an instructor, who affirms things which are not true and denies the things which are? What do we make of the toxicity and destructive power of the caustic critic who tears at the seams and dissolves the adhesive which binds the innumerable elements of our personality? Is it enough to say that they should be ignored and avoided? Dare we presume that they are well-intentioned, that their motives are pure, that the damage they do will be counterbalanced by the kindness implicit in their "trying to help"?

Cultures vary in their means of understanding and dealing with defamation, and in the severity of legal restrictions upon it various forms (libel, slander, vilification). While there is a global movement afoot to eliminate criminal penalties for defamation (with the European Court of Human Rights, among others), civil protections against malicious speech are generally upheld. While children may myopically retort, "words will never hurt me", the history of jurisprudence recognizes the substantial harm that may come from verbal injury and attacks upon one's reputation. Defenses offered in defamation cases (beyond the simplistic "freedom of speech") mix claims of truthfulness and denials of malice with the privilege of privacy, but little leeway is granted to the intentional, malicious, public attack upon the integrity and reputation of another person.

It is evil. To damage and destroy, with malice of forethought, the infrastructure of human personality is beyond rude, beyond unethical; it is comparable to the brutal torture of the spirit, the premeditated murder of the soul. The one who commits such a crime is in danger of damnation to the fires of Gehenna.

Applied to the Divine Personality of God, it is blasphemy. From this crime there is no retreat, no potential for remorse, no opportunity for repentance. It is unforgivable.

Too Much

According to Pascal, translated loosely:
too much light is just as blinding as too little;
too much noise is just as deafening as too little;
too much information is just as baffling as too little.

Is it possible that a superabundance of life's blessings can prove just a problematic as a shortage of serendipity?
Can it be that overwhelming opportunity paralyzes just as surely as a single barricaded door?
Does it make any sense that good and noble deeds lose their value when overdone?

Mother Teresa is often quoted complaining (tongue only partly in cheek):
"I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much."

Without daring to compare either my endurance or the heaviness of my burdens to those of Mother Teresa, I must honestly report that I have arrived at a similar sentiment, but with a different conclusion.

Whether by the gift of God or by poorly managed ambition, I have somehow arrived at more than I can handle. I do not report this as a passing feeling nor as a persistent fear, but as a plain fact. Syllogistic proofs I have none, but of this much I am persuaded: I simply do not possess the strength, the emotional stability, the mental clarity, or the intestinal fortitude to continue to perform the tasks and duties which I have been performing, at least not at a level which I would find acceptable or satisfactory. I cannot keep up this pace. The race is too long, and my legs are too tired.

Strangely, perhaps stupidly, I have not yet arrived at the point of resignation. I'm not ready to quit; not yet; not today. While every effort at personal inventory leads me to the unmistakable conclusion that I do not have the strength I will need for tomorrow, I nevertheless sense that I still have enough gas in the tank to get through the rest of today. And this has been the pattern every day, for many days. So consistently has this phenomenon been repeated that I have lost all confidence in my own ability to predict my future state. (One could argue that a repeating pattern of sufficiency should provide ample evidence for an inductive proof of satisfactory provision, but the deductive voices are not so easily quieted, and they insistently obsess on the very present shortages and shortfalls.)

Hypothetically, if sufficient food were provided for me each day, but never enough for the morrow, how long would I persist in being concerned about the clearly inadequate supply? Would 40 years of conditioning change my disposition? Would it help if, once a week, a two-day supply were offered, simply as a predictable demonstration that a regular "day off" would not disrupt either the dependable distribution nor my dependence upon it?

What if, by simple measurement of inventories, it was clear that the supply of oil was insufficient to keep the lights on through the dark night? How many nights would I continue to light the wick, knowing -- beyond reasonable doubt -- that the resources could not last? By the eighth night, would my convictions have changed? Would my doubts disappear?

If it is true that I simply have too much on my plate, that life and choice have provided me more than I can handle, then it must follow that my "too much" is matched by a corresponding "too little." "Too much" to do implies "too little" energy to do it. "Too much" to process suggests "too little" processing capacity. "Too much" of a burden translates into "too little" strength to bear it.

As a designer of mathematical models, I have learned that when reality consistently disproves the predictions of your model, you need to review your methodology and revisit your assumptions. When it comes to comprehending my own limitations, I should know by now that there is something wrong with my model. Either I am continually overestimating the demands placed upon me, or underestimating the availability of strength to meet those demands. Either I have too much awareness of my own weakness, or too little faith in God's provision of strength.

Or both.

Solitary Connectedness

If we can feel alone in a crowd (as I often do), would it be any less sensible to feel connected in isolation?

There is a phenomenon of focus that affects our ability to perceive in counter-intuitive ways.  The light emanated from a star is just as bright and just as present at noon as it is at midnight, but the greater light of the sun alters the behavior of our eyes, and thus inhibits our ability to discern the lesser light of the star.  The streetlights of the city have the same effect, although that light is not so much "greater" as it is closer, more brilliant by proximity alone (which may also be true of the sun and the star).  The light of the star does not change; our capacity to perceive it does.

So it is with friendship.  A dear and trusted friend walking up your driveway twenty yards away will be easily spotted and warmly greeted, while that same friend seated twenty yards away in a crowed arena may not be noticed at all.  The friend is just as present (and just as much a friend) in either case, but the sense of crowdedness alters our capacity to perceive -- not just by obstructing our view, but even more by diluting our focus, altering our capacity to perceive what is there.

Intimacy decreases as crowdedness increases.  Perhaps it is more true for introverts than for extroverts, but even in a broader sociological sense, interpersonal connectedness seems inversely proportional to population density.  Country living, from my own experience confirmed by many others, indeed offers greater opportunity for friendship and strong social networks than "cramped up city life."  Not just the capacity but also the desire to form relationships is inversely altered by the number of people in proximity.

By logical extension, the trajectory of this thinking leads me to posit that one may find the greatest desire and capacity for connectedness with others (as well as the greatest ability to perceive the connectedness already there) when one is most solitary, most alone.  Sitting alone in my living room this Saturday morning, experiencing my connectedness to others only through my thoughts and the posting of this blog (which may or may not ever be read by anyone, and thus may represent no connectedness at all), I sense a resonating truth to this proposition, for which my words will doubtless prove inadequate.

At the same time, I am aware of an contrary current, a fearful force warning me of the dangers of excessive isolation.  Lacking the clarity to pinpoint the source of this fear, I can only describe it, and that only in imprecise impressions.  It is as if I were being threatened by the possibility that the aloneness I enjoy might become permanent and irreversible, that somehow by choosing to cherish my solitude, I might also be choosing to destroy my relationships -- and not just those relationships I currently hold dear, but all others as well -- past, present, and future.  More than that, the fear of disconnectedness extends inward, portending the fragmentation of my personality -- of my soul -- into dissimilar and disintegrated parts and functions, lacking organization or coordination of any kind.  As Snoopy's head converses with his feet while jogging, my head grows anxious that my feet will no longer respond to -- nor care -- what my head desires.  Loss of social connectedness empties into loss of identity, loss of meaning, and loss of self, as a mountain stream empties into a river, a lake, an ocean.

I do not consider that fear to be decisive, nor that anxiety authoritative.  As a statement of faith more than a demonstrated conclusion, I do not believe that I shall fall apart.  But that conviction is conditioned on a significant presupposition: I believe that the physical and social world that I live in, as well as the integrated mind-body-spirit which I refer to as myself, is held together by something other than the force of my own will.  I believe that the organizational integrity of persons and things is rooted in a much more powerful and enduring being than the duct tape which is my own capacity to "keep it together".  I believe in God, the Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, and Strength of all that is.  Almighty Adhesive.

When I trust my own faith (a twisted phrase perhaps worthy of independent consideration), I find that I can enjoy the benefits of solitude (increased space and clarity, heightened perception and appreciation of others) without the anxiety of dissolution.  Indeed, a firm and faithful awareness of the constant Presence of God transforms my solitude into a singular and supremely focused connection with the One -- The One Who Is.  Emptied of all competing and diluting other connections, the One Solitary Connection becomes the creative, redemptive, sustaining, and strengthening Communion which fills the deepest emptiness of my heart.

It is good to be alone, when the One becomes the All.

E Pluribus Unum.