Loneliness is the fundamental condition of life — we are born by another, but born alone; die around others (if we are lucky and loved), but die alone; we spend our lives islanded in our one and only human experience — in these particular bodies and minds and circumstances drawn from the cosmic lottery — amid the immense ocean of time and chance teeming with all possible experience. Everything of beauty and substance that we make — every poem, every painting, every friendship — is an outstretched hand reaching out from one loneliness to another, reaching into the mute mouth of forever for the vowels of a common language to howl our requiem for the evanescent now.
Card from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days.
But despite being so fundamental, or perhaps precisely because of it, loneliness is fractal — the closer you look at the granularity of life, the more you see it branching into myriad lonelinesses, which, like the kinds of sadness, all have different emotional hues.
The loneliness of feeling invisible or misunderstood, bottomless and bone-chilling as the Scottish fog.
The loneliness of seeing what others look away from, remote and shoreless as a lighthouse.
The loneliness of public humiliation, a red-hot iron rod.
The loneliness of your most private failure, inky and arid like the desert at night.
The loneliness of success, shiny and sharp as obsidian.
The loneliness of love, lightless as the inside of a skull.
In his 2008 psychology classic Inner Gold: Understanding Psychological Projection (public library), Jungian analyst Robert A. Johnson groups all the possible lonelinesses into the three core kinds that pulsate beneath our daily lives and govern our search for love: the past-oriented loneliness of missing what once was and never again will be, the future-oriented loneliness of longing for what could be but has not come to pass, and what he calls "the profound loneliness of being close to God." This I take to mean the existential disorientation of feeling your transience press against the edge of the eternal, your smallness press against the immensity that dwells at the intersection of time, chance, and love; God is just what some call their dream of a crosswalk when they face that intersection.
The first two lonelinesses are rooted in time, which is itself fractal — there are many kinds of time we live with. The third kind of loneliness deals not with the temporal but with the eternal; it exists outside of time — like music, like wonder, like love. It is an existential loneliness, a creative loneliness, made not from the atoms of now that compose the other two lonelinesses but from the atoms of forever.
Card from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days, also available as a stand-alone print.
Because we, creatures made of time, cannot comprehend forever, it is easy to call it God — that catchall for everything immense and incomprehensible we face in ourselves. But this is an illusion — forever too is fractal, with myriad visitations of it in our daily lives. In a testament to James Baldwin's timeless insistence that "the poets… are finally the only people who know the truth about us," it is not the psychologists or the philosophers but the poets who part the veil of illusion to reveal the truth:
SOME KINDS OF FOREVER VISIT YOU
by Brenda Hillman
The unknowns are up early;
they browse through the bronze
porch bells. Crows
call & late
apples blaze
toward western emptiness.
In your illness,
the edges hesitate;
like the revolt
of workers, they
will take a while…
Here comes the fond
mild winter; other
realms are noisy
& unanimous. You tap
the screen & dream
while waiting; four
kinds of forever
visit you today:
something, nothing,
everything & art,
greater than you are
& of your making —
Poem courtesy of the Academy of American Poets
The two great tasks of the creative life are keeping failure from breaking the spirit and keeping success from ossifying it. If you do attain success by the weft and warp of hard work and luck, it takes great courage to resist becoming a template of yourself that replicates whatever has garnered you acclaim in the past, continually lowering and lowering your willingness to take risks, narrowing and narrowing your locus of curiosity — that elemental building block of creativity.
In 2005, while working as a designer at a branding agency, Debbie Millman — my onetime partner, now closest friend — rented a microphone and a room in an office building and sat down, excited and nervous and overprepared, to conduct her first interview. She had never interviewed anyone before. The word "podcast" did not yet exist. She had to pay a commercial internet radio service to air her tiny labor of love, which she called Design Matters.
It began as an inquiry into how her design heroes came to be who they are. But in a living testament to Bertrand Russell's abiding insight that the key to a fulfilling life as you grow older is to "make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life," over the years the interviews rippled beyond design to draw out the inner lives of musicians and poets, philosophers and physicists, and a panoply of artists across every discipline. These conversations would widen and widen to become one great investigation of what it takes to design a creative life, a life of substance and significance that touches other lives in a meaningful way.
To celebrate the 20th anniversary of Design Matters — the best of which is collected in this excellent book — I decided to revisit my favorite interviews from the entire archive and apply to them my bird divination process, reading over the hundreds of pages of transcripts, taking down words and phrases that called out to my imagination as particularly original or beautiful or plainly true, and rearranging them into a kind of lyric, or perhaps divination, that captures the spirit of the show and the overarching philosophy for living emanating from it.
I used twenty voices from the twenty years — nineteen interview subjects (Suleika Jaouad, David Spergel, Rosanne Cash, Jacqueline Woodson, Alison Bechdel, Roxane Gay, Joan As Police Woman, Indigo Girls, Susan Cain, Esther Perel, Alain de Botton, Sophie Blackall, Jad Abumrad, Krista Tippett, Seth Godin, Toshi Reagon, Tim Ferriss, Elizabeth Alexander) and Debbie herself. Each line comes from a different person, sometimes two in a single line. The final stanza, beginning with Debbie's signature "And remember…" that closes every podcast episode, is composed entirely of her own words and phrases spoken in these nineteen interviews.
Here is the fruit of this strange, wildly time-consuming, and utterly joyful labor:
TWENTY WAYS TO MATTER
Excavate the truth beneath the truth beneath the truth —
the deeper you go, the simpler it gets:
the longing, love, insecurity, rage, loss —
all of it part of the same fabric,
all just a story
emerging from the quantum foam.
Move through the world
knowing that everyone around you
is doing the best they can,
that humanity is capable
of the Moonlight Sonata
and the concentration camp,
that you are a piece
of the same puzzle.
If you are longing for
the world to be more perfect
do something about it:
become a kind of translator
between reality and possibility,
cast a light on a parallel world,
that little speck in the distance —
it is the hope, it is the struggle, it is the reward.
Let go of the future
but hold on to the beautiful things
that, like music, exist outside of time —
the sense of wonder and love and light.
When the chord changes on you
what if you harmonized it?
The black hole of your devastation
is a wild strange expansive place.
We are really good at coming up
with reasons to not go there.
Go there.
You will find the seeds
that become galaxies of growth.
You will find
what the soul and the spirit and the heart
need to know.
Be on the inside of your heart,
make a home inside yourself,
for to keep other people happy
is distraction from the real work of being
in which there is no final test
for how to be human —
only the open question
of how to be yourself
which you must answer daily
with all the strength and kindness
that you've got.
And remember
that life is an extraordinary creative collaboration,
that if we keep shining a light
on the things that mean and matter the most
the light overcomes the darkness,
that love is the oldest light in the universe
and when you live and work and listen
with open-hearted love
everything
everything
everything
is possible
for your life.
Six weeks before my grandmother was born on the other side of the world, the Brooklyn Daily Eagle announced the publication of a book described only as "a children's story of a bull," sold for $1.
In The Story of Ferdinand (public library), a gentle-souled young misfit sits out the perpetual head-butting by which his peers hone their bull-skills, choosing instead to smell the flowers under his favorite cork tree in solitude. His mother, at first worried about his bullness, recognizes her son's difference and trusts that he would find his way.
And so he does.
Ferdinand grows up to remain entirely himself.
The day he is taken to the bull ring, he models for the violence-hungry crowd — as he would for millions of readers in the century since — a saner way of being in an insane world.
Wilbur Monroe Leaf, better known as Munro Leaf (December 4, 1905–December 21, 1976), wrote the story in the first year of his thirties, on a yellow legal pad, in half an hour, as a creative prompt for his friend Robert Lawson (October 4, 1892–May 27, 1957) — he wanted to give the illustrator something to tickle his artistic imagination out of a lull.
Their collaborative creation went on to become one of the most beloved children's books of all time — cherished by Eleanor Roosevelt and Gandhi, adapted by Disney into an Oscar-winning film, translated into sixty languages, continuously in print for nearly a century.
It is a "children's book" in the same way that The Little Prince is — a miniature work of philosophy, delivered with simplicity and warmth, radiating immense and eternal ideas about the meaning of human life. Like a great poem, it can be read many different ways and taken to mean many different things — a story about otherness that can speak to modern-termed styles of otherness like queerness and neurodivergence; a story about the quiet power of nonconformity; a story about the world-shifting power of personal example.
This latter aspect is what rendered the book so threatening to the dictators and militants of the day, who were already compacting the ashes of one World War into the foundation of another. In a stark affirmation of Iris Murdoch's timeless observation that "tyrants always fear art because tyrants want to mystify while art tends to clarify," the book was deemed pacifist propaganda, banned in Franco's Spain and burned in Hitler's Germany.
Like The Little Prince — a book published eight years later and inspired by its author's wartime experience in the desert — The Story of Ferdinand has its roots in the lived experience of its creators. Both Leaf and Lawson had seen the world come undone in its first global war. When drafted, Lawson had joined the U.S. Army's first camouflage unit. As the young artist Franz Marc was painting his extraordinary hill-wide canvases across the French countryside in another army's camouflage unit, Lawson was putting on plays and music shows for French children. We have always survived history's dark patches by making our own light and meeting brutality with beauty.
Like Winnie-the-Pooh — a book published a decade earlier, inspired by a real-life rescue baby bear its author had visited with his son at the London Zoo — The Story of Ferdinand has its roots in the true story of a real bull in the Spanish countryside.
Don Juan Cobaleda had been a rancher all his life, but he had never seen what he saw one morning in the mid-1930s: Carmelita — his seven-year-old daughter — was petting his blackest bull, bred as a toro bravo for bullfighting; the beast was eating flowers out of the little girl's hand.
Don Juan must have been both touched by the sight and dismayed by his prized animal's corrida prospects, for he named the bull Civilón — "Large Civilian," a colloquial slur Spanish soldiers used for ordinary citizens.
Soon, other children were flocking to the farm with bouquets of wildflowers and succulent grass for Civilón to eat from their hands as photographs of him populated the human interest sections of Spanish newspapers.
Then, when Franco's fascist forces threatened to attack Barcelona in the late spring of 1936, the enterprising manager of city's historic bull ring set out to do what Facebook algorithms do today — prey on the way violence and sensation scintillate the weakest parts of human nature.
Civilón was taken from his bucolic paradise, carted to Barcelona, and released into the arena packed with thousands of scintillated spectators who had come to see what would happen to the famous furred pacifist under the bloodthirsty threat they took for entertainment.
Like any reasonable animal faced with another animal's aggression, Civilón pushed through the pain the picadors were stabbing between his shoulders and charged back, chasing them behind their barricade.
But when the rancher called out to the wounded animal from the side of the arena, Civilón trotted quietly over and leaned in for a caress — he hadn't let the violence erase his memory of kindness, or his trust in it.
The spectators were so moved by this a supreme manifestation of the bull's natural nobility, known as nobleza, that when the famous matador strutted into the arena with his sword to deliver the barbaric finale of the spectacle, a woman cried out for un indulto — that rare "indulgence," or pardon, by which a bull is spared death in recognition of his bravery and nobility. Other voices immediately joined her. The crowd rose to its feet as one and began chanting its unified demand for indulto.
It was such a powerful moment — the people acting as a people, acting human — that the president waved his orange handkerchief, granting the pardon. Civilón, mobbed by photographers and fans, was sent to the city stables to recover before being sent home to his peaceful pasture.
After the corrida, he appeared on the cover of the July 4 issue of the popular women's weekly Estampa alongside a beautiful woman embracing him snugly while holding his horn.
"The Adventure of Civilón in Barcelona's Bull Plaza," announced the headline. "The Women Saved Him," declared the subtitle.
The declamation was premature.
In mid-July, with Civilón still in Barcelona, Franco's militiamen burst through the city gates. In their looting and ransacking, they broke into the stables, killed Civilón, butchered him and ate him for breakfast before the resistance drove them away that evening. The July day Civilón was murdered is the day the Spanish Civil War began in full force, maiming the country for three years and stirring in Europe's bosom the violent passions that soon erupted into the next World War.
The Story of Ferdinand was published three months after the Spanish Civil War began. The great Spanish cellist Pablo Casals would live through it to emerge with his impassioned insistence on our shared duty "to make this world worthy of its children."
Twenty years later, at the peak of the Cold War, three months after Robert Lawson's death and four days before the release of the Hollywood film based on Hemingway's bullfighting novel, LIFE Magazine dusted off the story of Civilón — "a huge bull… so bravo y noble that his life was spared." Above one of Lawson's Ferdinand illustrations, the magazine noted that bulls of his disposition may be spared death in the ring but are "disgraced" for being "too timid to fight."
That year, the pioneering X-ray crystallographer, Quaker, and peace activist Kathleen Lonsdale wrote in her quiet masterwork on moral courage and the key to a nonviolent world that "those people who see clearly the necessity of changed thinking… must persuade others to do so." She believed that children must be nursed on this ethic, for they are the stewards of tomorrow. "What is essential," she wrote, "is that every member of the family, even little children, should learn at whatever cost not to give way to wrong or to co-operate in it."
The Story of Ferdinand was Leaf and Lawson's quiet, courageous act of persuasion — a testament to Ursula K. Le Guin's insistence that what imaginative art and storytelling give us is the ability to imagine alternative endings as attainable.
In the story's alternate universe, the peaceful bull's peacefulness does save his life — he makes it home unharmed, modeling a different way of being for a savage world, embodying the power of personal resistance that Eleanor Roosevelt knew furnishes the cumulative force of cultural change.
"And for all I know," Munro Leaf writes in the final pages, "he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly."
To me, The Story of Ferdinand is the picture-book counterpart of Auden's poem "The More Loving One" — that eternal masterwork in the art of alternative endings, defying the unhappy ending not on the miniature scale of the bull ring but on the grand scale of the universe. To be human is to long for a great cosmic indulto that would make for us an exception in the fate of all matter. All the art we make — the picture-books and the poems, the paintings and the songs — is our act of resistance to the blade between the horns that menaces us with its unpardonable promise from the moment we are born.
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