Once, while writing my first book, I lived on a lush volcanic island balding with so-called civilization, lawnmowers muffling its birdsong to turn its jungles into golf courses.
I watched waves taller than factory chimneys break into cliffs black as spacetime, making mansions look like a maquette of life.
I beheld the ancient indifferent faces of turtles older than the light bulb hatching their young under the NO TRESPASSING sign on a billionaire's private beach.
I looked into the open mouth of the volcano taunting the sky in the language of time.
I kept thinking about how those fault lines between the elemental and the ephemera of human life most readily expose our gravest civilizational foible: regarding nature as something to conquer, to neuter, to tame, "forgetting that we are nature too," forgetting that we are taming our own wildness, neutering our very souls.
Jay Griffiths offers a mighty antidote in her 2006 masterpiece Wild: An Elemental Journey (public library) — the product of "many years' yearning" pulling her "toward unfetteredness, toward the sheer and vivid world," learning to think with the mind of a mountain and feel with the heart of a forest, searching for "something shy, naked and elemental — the soul." What emerges is both an act of revolt (against the erasure of the wild, against the domestication of the soul) and an act of reverence (for the irrepressible in nature, for landscape as a form of knowledge, for life on Earth, as improbable and staggering as love.)
Art by Arthur Rackham for a rare 1917 edition of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. (Available as a print.)
A century and a half after Thoreau "went to the woods to live deliberately" (omitting from his famed chronicle of spartan solitude the fresh-baked doughnuts and pies his mother and sister brought him every Sunday), Griffiths spent seven years slaking her soul on the world's wildness, from the Amazon to the Arctic, trying "to touch life with the quick of the spirit," impelled by "the same ancient telluric vigor that flung the Himalayas up to applaud the sky." She writes:
I was looking for the will of the wild… The only thing I had to hold on to was the knife-sharp necessity to trust to the elements my elemental self.
I wanted to live at the edge of the imperative, in the tender fury of the reckless moment, for in this brief and pointillist life, bright-dark and electric, I could do nothing else.
[…]
The human spirit has a primal allegiance to wildness, to really live, to snatch the fruit and suck it, to spill the juice. We may think we are domesticated but we are not.
It all began by getting lost in "the wasteland of the mind, in a long and dark depression" that left her unable to walk or write, "pathless, bleak and bewildered, not knowing which way to turn." (A decade later, Griffiths would write an entire book about that discomposing yearlong episode of manic depression.) Searching for "the octaves of possibilities," reckoning with "the maybes of the mind," yearning for release from the supermarket aisles of the psyche, she set out to find the savage antipode to "this chloroform world where human nature is well schooled, tamed from childhood on, where the radiators are permanently on mild and the windows are permanently closed." She writes:
I felt an urgent demand in the blood. I could hear its call. Its whistling disturbed me by day and its howl woke me in the night. I heard the drum of the sun. Every path was a calling cadence, the flight of every bird a beckoning, the color of ice an invitation: come. The forest was a fiddler, wickedly good, eyes intense and shining with a fast dance. Every leaf in every breeze was a toe tapping out the same rhythm and every mountaintop lifting out of cloud intrigued my mind, for the wind at the peaks was the flautist, licking his lips, dangerously mesmerizing me with inaudible melodies that I strained to hear, my eyes yearning for the horizon of sound. This was the calling, the vehement, irresistible demand of the feral angel — take flight. All that is wild is winged — life, mind and language — and knows the feel of air in the soaring "flight, silhouetted in the primal."
Art from An Almanac of Birds: Divinations for Uncertain Days. (Available as a print and as stationery cards, benefitting the Audubon Society.)
She lived for months with a hill tribe in the forests of the Burmese border, lost all her toenails climbing Kilimanjaro, met "cannibals infinitely kinder and more trustworthy than the murderous missionaries who evangelized them," felt "what it is like to whimper with sheer loneliness on a Christmas Day in a jungle on the other side of the world," learned to live in the seasons and the elements, "right within nature because there is nothing that is not nature."
She reflects:
To me, humanity is not a strain on wilderness as some seem to think. Rather the human spirit is one of the most striking realizations of wildness. It is as eccentrically beautiful as an ice crystal, as liquidly life-generous as water, as inspired as air. Kerneled up within us all, an intimate wildness, sweet as a nut. To the rebel soul in everyone, then, the right to wear feathers, drink stars and ask for the moon… We are — every one of us — a force of nature, though sometimes it is necessary to relearn consciously what we have never forgotten; the truant art, the nomad heart.
Moonlight, Winter by Rockwell Kent. (Available as a print and as stationery cards.)
Pulsating beneath the passionate poetics is an indictment and a beckoning. A decade after Maya Angelou channeled the selfsame polarity of human nature in her staggering space-bound poem "A Brave and Startling Truth," Griffiths writes:
There are two sides: the agents of waste and the lovers of the wild. Either for life or against it. And each of us has to choose.
Reclaiming our wildness emerges as an act of courage and resistance amid the conspicuous consumption by which late-stage capitalism drugs us into mistaking having for being, anesthetizing the urgency of our mortality — that wellspring of everything beautiful and enduring we make. What Griffiths offers is a wakeup call from this near-living, a spell against apathy, against air con and asphalt, against our self-expatriation from our own nature:
What is wild cannot be bought or sold, borrowed or copied. It is. Unmistakable, unforgettable, unshamable, elemental as earth and ice, water, fire and air, a quintessence, pure spirit, resolving into no constituents. Don't waste your wildness: it is precious and necessary. In wildness, truth. Wildness is the universal songline, sung in green gold, which we recognize the moment we hear it. What is wild is what drives the honeysuckle, what wills the dragonfly, shoves the wind and compels the poem. Wildness is insatiable for life; neither truly knows itself without the other. Wildness… sucks up the now, it blazes in your eyes and it glories in everyone who willfully goes their own way.
Complement Wild — a vivifying read in its entirety — with Wendell Berry's timeless poem "The Peace of Wild Things" and artist Rockwell Kent, writing a century earlier, on wilderness and creativity, then revisit Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris's magnificent rewilding of the human spirit.
People pass through our lives and change us, tilting our orbit with their own. Sometimes, if the common gravitational center is strong enough, they return, they stay. Sometimes they travel on. But they change us all the same.
The great consolation of the cosmic order is the constancy of its laws, indiscriminate across the immensity of space, unchanged since the beginning of time. That we can predict an eclipse centuries into the future with precision down to the second but not the outcome of an election, that we can foretell the return of a comet but not the return of a friend, is a strange oasis of sanity amid the chaotic uncertainty of life. It is also a mirror — we see ourselves reflected in universe, covet its organizing principles for the chaos of our own lives.
In this respect, comets — the most erratic of cosmic denizens, with their irregular orbits, fickle periodicity, and mysterious origins in the outermost reaches of space — offer a singular lens on human relationships, that most unpredictable phenomenon in the universe.
Korean musician Lee Juck and artist Lee Jinhee take up these deep and often heavy questions with great levity and loveliness in Comet & Star (public library) — the story of a little star whose cosmic loneliness is interrupted by a visit from humanity's most beloved comet: Halley's comet, which has inspired poems and auguries. ("I came in with Halley's Comet in 1835," a grown wrote in his 1909 autobiography. "It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it." And so he did — Halley's comet, which blazes across Earth's skies once every 76 years, was visible on November 30, 1835, when Samuel Clemens was born, and again on April 21, 1910, when he died as Mark Twain.)
As the comet passes, the little star calls out timorously, "Will you… be my friend?" But the comet blazes past.
Loneliness descends again, grey and dim — 76 years of it (which is but a blink in the life of a star, but it is also eternity to wait even a day for a loved one who has left).
And then, to the star's great and glad surprise, the comet returns, this time ready to connect.
In the fleeting encounter, a beautiful friendship comes aglow. "To see takes time, like to have a friend takes time," Georgia O'Keeffe memorably wrote — but there is also, if you are lucky enough and openhearted enough, that rare miracle of knowing another only a short time yet seeing their naked soul, seeing yourself seen and deeply cherished in their eyes.
And so, when the comet leaves again to complete its next orbit, the star is no longer lonely — there is deep consolation in the knowledge that the cherished friend will always return, long though the stretches of absence may be; there is singular solace in the understanding that leaving need not be abandonment, that time and space avail not in any true bond, which nothing but indifference can break. ("Meeting and separation are two forms of friendship that contain the same good," Simone Weil wrote to a faraway friend. "Let us love this distance which is wholly woven of friendship, for those who do not love each other are not separated.")
The star and the comet
each glowed with joy
because they knew
they would meet again.
And they both shone
brighter than ever
in our vast universe.
Complement Comet & Star with the story of the comet behind Earth's most transcendent celestial spectacle (which might one day destroy us) and these wonder-smiting medieval paintings of comets, then revisit Big Wolf & Little Wolf — another tender illustrated parable about loneliness and how friendship transforms us, which remains one of my favorite books of all time.
Illustrations courtesy of Enchanted Lion Books; photographs by Maria Popova
It never ceases to stagger that some stroke of chance in the early history of the universe set into motion the Rube Goldberg machine of events that turned atoms born in the first stars into you — into this temporary clump of borrowed stardust that, for the brief interlude between not having existed and no longer existing, gets to have ideas and ice cream and orgasms, gets to yearn and to suffer and to love.
Perhaps the most hopeful thing about being alive is that we are never finished and complete. Perhaps the most exasperating is that we are never entirely new, that we are nested with every self we have ever been, each stage of our development shaped by the singular needs and tensions of each preceding stage, our character shaped by how those needs and tensions were met and resolved.
Art by Ofra Amit for The Universe in Verse
The influential psychoanalyst Erik Erikson (June 15, 1902–May 12, 1994), who coined the term identity crisis and readily recognized that "an individual life is the accidental coincidence of but one life cycle with but one segment of history," took up this tessellated question of our incremental becoming in his 1950 book Childhood and Society (public library) — an investigation of "the growth and the crises of the human person as a series of alternative basic attitudes."
Erikson identifies eight sequential stages of human development, each marked by a particular battery of opposite psychic charges — one a positive developmental achievement that strengthens one's self-trust, world-trust, and creative potency, the other a danger that fosters antagonism, isolation, and despair. He writes:
The strength acquired at any stage is tested by the necessity to transcend it in such a way that the individual can take chances in the next stage with what was most vulnerably precious in the previous one.
[…]
There is in every child at every stage a new miracle of vigorous unfolding, which constitutes a new hope and a new responsibility for all.
[…]
In view of the dangerous potentials of man's long childhood, it is well to look back at the blueprint of the life-stages and to the possibilities of guiding the young of the race while they are young.
1. BASIC TRUST VS. BASIC MISTRUST (0-18 MONTHS) |
Art by Violeta Lópiz for At the Drop of a Cat
The first intense experience of life is separation — infant and mother are no longer one, and the infant must learn to trust that the mother is still there even when she vanishes from view. Erikson writes:
The infant's first social achievement, then, is his willingness to let the mother out of sight without undue anxiety or rage, because she has become an inner certainty as well as an outer predictability. Such consistency, continuity, and sameness of experience provide a rudimentary sense of ego identity.
[…]
This forms the basis in the child for a sense of identity which will later combine a sense of being "all right," of being oneself.
This kind of trust is the foundation of confidence, for it is also training ground for the self-trust necessary to withstand separation, to have faith in one's inherent okayness. The absence of such maternal consistency and continuity, Erikson observes, may be one of the most difficult cards to be dealt in life, predisposing people to habitual "depressive states" in later stages.
This is also the stage in which we learn to discern where we end and the rest of the world begins — the vital distinction that enables us to differentiate between the rewards of interdependence and the dangers of codependence, to navigate the myriad traps that strew the meeting ground between self and other. Erikson writes:
The early process of differentiation between inside and outside [is] the origin of projection and introjection which remain some of our deepest and most dangerous defense mechanisms. In introjection we feel and act as if an outer goodness had become an inner certainty. In projection, we experience an inner harm as an outer one: we endow significant people with the evil which actually is in us… These mechanisms are, more or less normally, reinstated in acute crises of love, trust, and faith in adulthood and can characterize irrational attitudes toward adversaries and enemies in masses of "mature" individuals.
2. AUTONOMY VS. SHAME AND DOUBT (18 MONTHS-3 YEARS) |
Art by Giuliano Cucco from Before I Grew Up
The hallmark of the second stage is a physiological development that becomes an analogue for one of the most important psychological skills in life — to hold on and to let go, central to such fundamental capacities as intimacy, compassion, tenacity, and forgiveness. Erikson writes:
Muscular maturation sets the stage for experimentation with two simultaneous sets of social modalities: holding on and letting go. As is the case with all of these modalities, their basic conflicts can lead in the end to either hostile or benign expectations and attitudes. Thus, to hold can become a destructive and cruel retaining or restraining, and it can become a pattern of care: to have and to hold. To let go, too, can turn into an inimical letting loose of destructive forces, or it can become a relaxed "to let pass" and "to let be."
This is the stage at which the experience of shame first emerges and we must learn to have our "basic faith in existence" not jeopardized by the embarrassments of getting things wrong. ("Shame is an experience that affects and is affected by the whole self," the pioneering sociologist and philosopher Helen Merrell Lynd would write a few years later in her insightful take on shame and the search for identity.) For the infant at this stage, Erikson observes, shame springs from the emergence of a new developmental phenomenon: the "sudden violent wish to have a choice, to appropriate demandingly, and to eliminate stubbornly." He writes:
Shame supposes that one is completely exposed and conscious of being looked at: in one word, self-conscious. One is visible and not ready to be visible… Shame is… essentially rage turned against the self.
With an eye to the development of these crucial capacities for holding on, letting go, and withstanding shame, he adds:
This stage, therefore, becomes decisive for the ratio of love and hate, cooperation and willfulness, freedom of self-expression and its suppression, From a sense of self-control without loss of self-esteem comes a lasting sense of good will and pride; from a sense of loss of self-control and of foreign overcontrol comes a lasting propensity for doubt and shame.
3. INITIATIVE VS. GUILT (AGES 3-5) |
Illustration by Maurice Sendak from Kenny's Window — his little-known philosophical first children's book.
As we begin to take initiative in completing tasks, we develop what Erikson calls "anticipatory rivalry" — which may be another word for envy — toward those who complete the same tasks better. Here, we learn that what the world asks of us often requires the repression and inhibition of our own hopes and desires.
The danger of this, if we successfully cede desire to demand, is a sense of self-righteousness — "often the principal reward of goodness," Erikson astutely observes a decade before Joan Didion admonished against mistaking self-righteousness for morality, a tendency painfully pronounced in our own time of virtue signaling.
4. INDUSTRY VS. INFERIORITY (AGES 6-11) |
Art by Giuliano Cucco from Before I Grew Up
This is the stage at which our natural creativity and capacity for play begin being sublimated to our civilizational cult of productivity. School starts, forcing the child to part with earlier hopes and wishes as their "exuberant imagination is tamed and harnessed… to be a worker."
The danger in this overidentification with accomplishment, building upon the earlier development of envy, is "a sense of inadequacy and inferiority," which may lead the child to believe themselves "doomed to mediocrity or inadequacy." (This, of course, is the perennial danger of all self-comparison, acute even for adults in today's broadcast selfhood of social media.)
5. IDENTITY VS. ROLE CONFUSION (AGES 12-18) |
Art by Mouni Feddag for a letter by Alain de Botton from A Velocity of Being: Letters to a Young Reader. (Available as a print.)
Here begins our concern with what we appear to be to others versus what we feel we are — an integration that marks the emergence of our ego identity. Erikson considers the many guises in which the great danger of this stage — role confusion — can appear:
To keep themselves together [adolescents] temporarily overidentify, to the point of apparent complete loss of identity, with the heroes of cliques and crowds. This initiates the stage of "falling in love," which is by no means entirely, or even primarily, a sexual matter — except where the mores demand it. To a considerable extent adolescent love is an attempt to arrive at a definition of one's identity by projecting one's diffused ego image on another and by seeing it thus reflected and gradually clarified. This is why so much of young love is conversation.
In a passage of far-reaching insight and extraordinary empathy for the vulnerabilities of the psyche, which most people would rather fault than fathom, he adds:
Young people can also be remarkably clannish, and cruel in their exclusion of all those who are "different," in skin color or cultural background, in tastes and gifts, and often in such petty aspects of dress and gesture as have been temporarily selected as the signs of an in-grouper or out-grouper. It is important to understand (which does not mean condone or participate in) such intolerance as a defense against a sense of identity confusion. For adolescents not only help one another temporarily through much discomfort by forming cliques and by stereotyping themselves, their ideals, and their enemies; they also perversely test each other's capacity to pledge fidelity. The readiness for such testing also explains the appeal which simple and cruel totalitarian doctrines have on the minds of the youth.
6. INTIMACY VS. ISOLATION (AGES 18-40) |
Art by Sophie Blackall from Things to Look Forward to
This is the stage at which emotional integrity develops — we learn the particular form of self-trust and self-respect that come from making commitments and keeping them, even when it is difficult to do so. The self-permission to break promises and cancel plans stems from a failure at the developmental achievement of this stage and the price we pay for it, quite apart from disappointing and hurting others, is always an erosion of self-trust and self-respect. Erikson writes:
The young adult, emerging from the search for and the insistence on identity… is ready for intimacy, that is, the capacity to commit himself to concrete affiliations and partnerships and to develop the ethical strength to abide by such commitments, even though they may call for significant sacrifices and compromises.
Observing that this is when we first face the "fear of ego loss" in situations that may require compromise and sacrifice, he adds:
The avoidance of such experiences because of a fear of ego loss may lead to a deep sense of isolation and consequent self-absorption.
The great challenge of this stage is that "intimate, competitive, and combative relations are experienced with and against the selfsame people." It is necessary to learn to tolerate and resolve such tensions, or otherwise we face the great danger of this stage — isolation, which Erikson defines as "the avoidance of contacts which commit to intimacy."
7. GENERATIVITY VS. STAGNATION (AGES 40-65) |
Art by Carson Ellis from What Is Love? by Mac Barnett
Erikson counters our culture's hyperfocus on children's dependence on parents with the insistence that the older generation is also dependent on the younger, for elders "need to be needed." (A generation before him, Jane Ellen Harrison addressed this with great geniality and great percipience in her meditation on Old Age and Youth.)
Erikson terms the animating achievement of this life-stage generativity, which he defines as "the concern in establishing and guiding the next generation," noting that it is "meant to include such more popular synonyms as productivity and creativity, which, however, cannot replace it."
Whether generativity manifests as physically producing the next generation through procreation or contributing to the world through acts of creation, a failure to attain it results in "a pervading sense of stagnation and personal impoverishment."
8. EGO INTEGRITY VS. DESPAIR (AGE 65-DEATH) |
Art by the 16th-century Portuguese artist Francisco de Holanda. (Available as a print and as stationery cards.)
"One's life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation, compassion," Simone de Beauvoir wrote in her sixties as she reflected on the art of growing older. That we must die is precisely what impels us to render our lives valuable. We can only do so, Erikson argues, by moving through the prior seven stages toward this final fruition of what he calls ego integrity — "the ego's accrued assurance of its proclivity for order and meaning," built of our adaptation "to the triumphs and disappointments adherent to being."
In a passage evocative of Loren Eiseley's exquisite late-life meditation on the first and final truth of life, Erikson writes:
[Ego integrity] is a post-narcissistic love of the human ego—not of the self — as an experience which conveys some world order and spiritual sense, no matter how dearly paid for. It is the acceptance of one's one and only life cycle as something that had to be and that, by necessity, permitted of no substitutions.
One consequence of this acceptance is "a new, a different love of one's parents." Another is that "death loses its sting," for the fear of death stems from the lack of a sense of cohesion and consonance with universal life — a lack that takes shape as despair. (This may be why D.H. Lawrence called death "the last wonder" and wrote: "If you want to live in peace on the face of the earth / Then build your ship of death, in readiness / For the longest journey.")
Erikson ends with one of the most potent formulae in the science of the psyche:
Healthy children will not fear life if their elders have integrity enough not to fear death.
Couple with Erikson's contemporary Ernest Becker on the relationship between our fear of death and our search for meaning, then revisit this Jungian field guide to navigating the particularly treacherous middle stages of life.
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