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 Hello Blog! This is the weekly email digest of The Marginalian by Maria Popova. If you missed last week's edition — how to change your life, the wonderful Japanese concept of "ma," and the true purpose of tarot — you can catch up right here. And if my labor of love touches your life in a meaningful way, please consider supporting its ongoingness with a donation — for twenty years, it has remained free, ad-free, AI-free, fully human and alive thanks to reader patronage. If you already donate: I appreciate you more than you know.
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In 1964, Pantheon Books invited J.R.R. Tolkien (January 3, 1892–September 2, 1973) to write an introduction to George MacDonald’s The Golden Key, which he had praised in Tree and Leaf — the small, splendid essay collection that gave us his uncommonly insightful meditation on fairy tales, the language of fantasy, and why there is no such thing as writing “for children.” He did love the book, so he agreed. But after two years of uneasy work on it, he finally conceded it was a betrayal of his lifelong credo that editorial introductions are an intrusion on the reader’s joy in being confronted by the immediacy of the story itself, with no one to tell them how to feel about it. He decided to bow out of the assignment.
In his struggle with it, however, Tolkien had found it “necessary to deal with the problem of ‘fairy,'” as he later wrote to a friend. So he decided to tackle it by writing an actual fairy story, perhaps the way Mary Oliver wrote one of her greatest poems as an exercise in end-stop lines, to better understand the form.
Published in 1967 as Smith of Wootton Major (public library), it includes a postscript on “the problem,” which Tolkien chooses to spell “Faery,” to mean more broadly the enchanted world. 
J.R.R. Tolkien
Among the many lovelinesses of the essay is his ready use of the old-fashioned word “ruth” — a feeling of pity, anguish, or grief, from the Old English hrēow, meaning “sorrow” — which also gives us the wonderful underused verb “to rue” and the far more common, even commodified adjective “ruthless.” Enchantment, Tolkien argues, is a fusion of ruth and delight — in other words, a capacity for feeling life deeply in its full range. It is decidedly not religious, though religious experiences may contain elements of it, because religion is one of many possible organizing principles of the ordinary world, but enchantment allows us to partake of extraordinary. He writes:
 Faery represents at its weakest a breaking out (at least in mind) from the iron ring of the familiar, still more from the adamantine ring of belief that it is known, possessed, controlled, and so (ultimately) all that is worth being considered — a constant awareness of a world beyond these rings. More strongly it represents love: that is, a love and respect for all things, “inanimate” and “animate,” an unpossessive love of them as “other.” This “love” will produce both ruth and delight. Things seen in its light will be respected, and they will also appear delightful, beautiful, wonderful even glorious.
It is a moving point, a true point, which we must not forget: Enchantment — wherever we may find it (as in nature, poetry, music), or wherever it might find us (as in love) — is not escapism but a truer realism than cynicism, pessimism, or optimism. In allowing us to touch the extraordinary, enchantment — which asks of the courage of the encounter — returns us to our lives more in love with the so-called ordinary world, which, we must also not forget, is itself an extraordinary triumph against probability. 
One of Tolkien’s a href=”https://www.themarginalian.org/2011/11/01/art-of-the-hobbit/”>original illustrations for the first edition of The Hobbit, 1936
Tolkien writes:
Faery might be said indeed to represent Imagination (without definition because taking in all the definitions of this word): esthetic: exploratory and receptive; and artistic: inventive, dynamic, (sub)creative. This compound — of awareness of a limitless world outside our domestic parish; a love (in ruth and admiration) for the things in it; and a desire for wonder, marvels, both perceived and conceived — this “Faery” is as necessary for the health and complete functioning of the Human as is sunlight for physical life.
Couple with Loren Eiseley (one of the poet laureates of loving the world by being in it) on how to touch the miraculous in the mundane, then revisit George Saunders’s modern prescription for how to love the world more.
donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For twenty years, it has remained free, ad-free, AI-free, fully human and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If it makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference.
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You know it, that awful moment your coherent self-image shatters and a part of you, shadowy and untended, splits off to cause harm and havoc as the rest of you watches helplessly, wincing. You know the next moment, too — the desperate wish for an undo button you know cannot be had, no matter your protestations and prostrations.
It is a seductive dream, to have an unregetting life, but it is also a dangerous dream, for it dooms us to the living nightmare of perfection, that punitive negation of our humanity. If we didn’t shudder at our own missteps, we could never wish to leap higher. How achingly beautiful to be reminded that we are not cold algorithms whose very reason for being is to execute commands perfectly; that we are creatures whose imperfection is precisely what makes them perfect miracles of flesh and feeling. Our errors are the source-code of our self-transcendence.
Barring denial and dissociation, there are two ways to relate to our mistakes. Regret, rooted in rumination, is the desperate wish for an undo button — a wish that, however ardent, is hollow of consequence. Remorse, rooted in reflection, is the actionable desire for a redo — the drive, intentional and directional, to transform the revelations of reflection into a new working theory of doing better. Regret is a turbine of self-destruction, remorse an engine of renewal. 
Art from Reweaving the Rainbow
Drawing on the etymological and cultural heritage of both words, historian Tiffany Watt Smith offers a revelatory distinction between the two, both subtle and profound, in The Book of Human Emotions: An Encyclopedia of Feeling from Anger to Wanderlust (public library), which also gave us that wonderful lexicon of difficult emotions from around the world. She writes:
The regret of the past was not the same as our won. From the Old French regrés (sorrows or disappointments), when the word seems to have first entered the English language in the 1400s it described grief felt at the loss of a person, or one’s place in the world. One distinctive difference was that regret was also a kind of performance, an often-heightened expression of sorrow. The “making of regrets,” or regrettes, was a pious yet clamouring affair: the lamentations at a wake, the weeping at funerals. In the sixteenth century — the moment historians associate with the birth of the modern concept of an interiorised self — regret began to harden into its contemporary meaning as a self-reproach, a private anguish felt looking back at some action you wish you’d not committed — or that you wish you had. It was at this time that the threat of this hidden torture, rather than punishment in the hereafter, became a deterrent favoured by parents and preachers alike. “For this deed thou shalt for anguish fret,” warned the Calvinist parliamentarian Francis Rous in 1598 and “feed thy wombe with woe and deepe regret.”
Today, regret remains firmly entrenched as a private emotional experience… The regrets we feel most sorely are often the ones that jar hardest with our sense of self.
The real value of regret, Watt Smith observes, is to remind us of “the ambivalence which haunts all of our lives” — that disquieting evidence of the parts we live with.
But because regret is at bottom “a kind of desire for something different to have happened,” it is an emotion shot dead by time’s arrow. Hannah Arendt knew this when she considered the only antidote to the irreversibility of life — not regret but redemptive action. 
Art by Jacqueline Ayer from The Paper-Flower Tree
The fulcrum of such action, Watt Smith argues, is remorse. With an eye to the scorching self-blame we feel when we first recognize our harmful missteps, she writes:
Remorse arrives when the initial flare of anger calms, when the reality of what we’ve said or done clumps in the throat. Unlike the whirring and suffocation of regret, remorse is urgent and wild. Full of terror, flecked with love, it’s a desire to preserve our bond with the person we’ve hurt… Remorse, then, is most clearly defined as an urgent desire to do something. To make amends, to attempt to heal the one we’ve harmed. Because, unlike shame, which is a horror of something we are, remorse involves something done, and urges us to correct it. In this sense, remorse is both extremely painful and full of striving and hopefulness too.
Remorse, however, is haunted by the specter of regret, which is inherently an act of selfing — a spiral of rumination borrowing into the substrate of our deepest self-doubt. “Excessive remorse,” Watt Smith cautions, may “lead to disproportionate acts, causing more grief, rather than less” — a haunting reminder that our morality hinges on unselfing, and the purpose of reflecting on our errors is not to allay our self-blame but to effect repair and healing for those we have harmed, the catalyst for which is correctly calibrated remorse.
Couple with dissident poet turned president Václav Havel, writing from prison, on how to hold your greatest failure, then revisit Ellen Bass’s benediction of a poem “How to Apologize.”
donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For twenty years, it has remained free, ad-free, AI-free, fully human and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If it makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference.
monthly donationYou can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch. |
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one-time donationOr you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. |
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| Partial to Bitcoin? You can beam some bit-love my way: 197usDS6AsL9wDKxtGM6xaWjmR5ejgqem7 Need to cancel an existing donation? (It's okay — life changes course. I treasure your kindness and appreciate your support for as long as it lasted.) You can do so on this page. |
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One December afternoon, I arrived in Patagonia with a big blue backpack, a small bilingual edition of Pablo Neruda’s love poems, and a broken heart. (Though a heart, of course, never breaks.) The moment I stepped out of the airplane, the Andes towered over me like the stone thrones of gods, snow-capped over the oracle eye of the glacial lake, blue as Uranus, their scale so incomprehensible you are no longer a person but a particle, a mote of dust in the eye of eternity; the trees are no longer trees but moss carpeting the slopes all the way down to the water’s edge, as if to test the limits of their world. I had come to test the limits of mine, to hold on while letting go.
As soon as I settled into the house where I was going to be living, I headed out for a walk along the dirt road so dry it felt like a lunar landscape. Cars swarmed me in cloud after cloud of gas and dust. I closed my eyes to let them pass, picturing the Pillars of Creation — that famous Hubble photograph of the Eagle Nebula, whose gas and dust are always in the process of creating new stars while at the same time being consumed by the light of nearby newborn stars. 
Pillars of Creation (Hubble Space Telescope / NASA)
I hadn’t been walking an hour when the sky turned to steel. Without a flash of warning, the clouds opened their mute mouths and out poured rain so cold that time seemed to have reversed course, hurling the hemisphere back into winter.
It rained all night and all through the next day. Eventually, unable to stand my indoor captivity, I donned all the clothes I had packed on top of each other, squeezed myself into the raincoat now two sizes too small, and ventured out again. But when I stepped onto the street, I found it completely transformed, all the dust washed away to reveal a carpet of stones so shiny they were almost luminous.
Suddenly, my eye fell upon a striking stone unlike all the rest — swirling shades of green, resembling the skin of some exotic serpent.
That the Earth decided to make something this beautiful, when it could have just gone on making granite, felt like a miracle — the miracle of all those things unnecessary to survival, like music, like love, that give meaning to being alive.
As soon as I returned to the house, I turned to the geological database to learn that it is a type of stone called serpentine, special not only in its aesthetics but in its origin: Serpentine forms at the bottom of the ocean, in the hydrothermal vents along mid-oceanic ridges, where life on Earth most probably began. Under the extreme temperature and pressure, water compacts four minerals into metamorphic rock that combine to give it this striking green color.
There I was, atop this massive mountain, holding a tiny fragment from the bottom of the world — a beautiful souvenir from the beginning of life, a bright reminder that time makes and remakes worlds.
I started seeing serpentine everywhere.
About a week in, I came home to astonishing news: For about a decade, NASA had been studying the asteroid Bennu, which orbits the Sun a hundred million miles away from it, between Jupiter and Mars, and passes close to Earth every six years. One of the first asteroids to have dust and rock samples collected and returned to Earth, Bennu’s mineral composition turned out to be dominated by serpentine, containing not only all amino acids essential for DNA and RNA but water-soluble phosphates — fundaments of biochemistry for all known life on Earth. 
Bennu sample return capsule (NASA)
The most astonishing part is that because an asteroid has no atmosphere, no liquid water can cling to its surface, but serpentine requires water to form — Bennu must be a fragment of a water world that formed in the outer reaches of the Solar System in the infant universe, when the building blocks of life as we know it were being forged. A giant piece of serpentine encoding the entire evolutionary history of the universe.
Suddenly, against this immense backdrop of the majesty and mystery of the universe, I was no longer in the wound — I was in wonder. It is the self that suffers by the story that cinches the moment. Every act of unselfing — of contacting the interconnectedness of everything that ever was and ever will be, the wondrous totality held in time — is a salve for suffering, a way of being reborn.
Somehow, I found myself thinking about the cosmic egg concept present in many indigenous origin myths — the idea that the universe was hatched into being by a giant bird — and pictured the egg made of serpentine, a newborn world made of time and trust in life.
And so, enlisting a rock tumbler and my ceramics practice, I made it — a translucent sphere of serpentine with a small yellow ceramic bird perched atop it, winged with the words TRUST and TIME.
Because a daily creative practice is a consecration of the indestructible in us and a technology for trusting time, I began making one serpentine birdworld each day for forty-two days, with the intention of giving them away on my forty-second birthday this summer by the same impartial hand of chance that made this world, to people who have made my life more livable — some to pillars of my private world, and the rest to you: Support from readers makes my life literally livable by putting food on my table and books on my shelves, yes, but also contributes to what makes it worth living — that lifeline of connection that punctures the isolation of our personal suffering.
To enter the raffle, make a donation by the astronomical end of summer in any amount that is right for you, but end it with the decimal .42, whether it is $1.42 or $1,000.42. (This will help me separate the serpentine raffle from the regular donations.) Let us favor morality over mathematics — no manipulation of probability by making multiple entries: just one per person, so we may remember that we are all equals as children of chance.
As to my daily practice of learning to trust time, somewhere along the way of making these serpentine birdworlds, I crossed the threshold between wound and wonder, and my heart began healing. We don’t choose our wounds. But we can choose to let go of the story and wing ourselves with wonder. It is what makes this rocky planet a world and this existence a life.
donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For twenty years, it has remained free, ad-free, AI-free, fully human and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If it makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference.
monthly donationYou can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch. |
|
one-time donationOr you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. |
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| Partial to Bitcoin? You can beam some bit-love my way: 197usDS6AsL9wDKxtGM6xaWjmR5ejgqem7 Need to cancel an existing donation? (It's okay — life changes course. I treasure your kindness and appreciate your support for as long as it lasted.) You can do so on this page. |
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THE MARGINALIAN TURNS 20: COME CELEBRATE
Details and tickets here.
BIRD DIVINATION OF THE WEEK
Available as a print and more. Find the full set of 100 bird divinations, along with the story and process behind them, here.
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