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Life is an ongoing expedition into the brambled tendrilled wilderness of ourselves, continually stymied by all we mistake for a final destination — success, superhuman strength, the love of another. Along the way, we keep confusing experiment and exploration. An experiment proves or disproves an existing theory; its payoff is data, fixed and binary. An exploration is a traversal of the unknown, of landscapes you didn't even know existed, with all the courage and vulnerability and openness to experience that demands; its payoff is discovery — of unimagined wonders, of yourself in the face of the unimagined. Discovery, in its purest form, is nothing less than revelation. On the pages of his posthumously published masterpiece The Book of Disquiet (public library), poet and philosopher Fernando Pessoa (June 13, 1888–November 30, 1935) considers the complex question of discovering yourself. He writes:  Eternal tourists of ourselves, there is no landscape but what we are. We possess nothing, for we don't even possess ourselves. We have nothing because we are nothing. What hand will I reach out, and to what universe? The universe isn't mine: it's me.
[…] Everything is in us — all we need to do is look for it and know how to look.
It may be that we don't know how to look because we are looking as tourists — passing visitors to the foreign parts of ourselves — rather than explorers. The spirit of exploration is something else altogether, requiring a total receptivity to experience — the mind uncaged from expectation and convention, the animal sensorium fully open to every channel of aliveness, the soul ready for the revelation of discovery. 
Pessoa offers a brief, blazing set of instructions to himself for how to attain such revelatory receptivity: To feel everything in every way; to be able to think with the emotions and feel with the mind; not to desire much except with the imagination; to suffer with haughtiness; to see clearly so as to write accurately; to know oneself through diplomacy and dissimulation; to become naturalized as a different person, with all the necessary documents; in short, to use all sensations but only on the inside, peeling them all down to God and then wrapping everything up again and putting it back in the shop window like the sales assistant I can see from here with the small tins of a new brand of shoe polish.
Only such raw receptivity to the reality of the universe without saves us from losing sight of the universe within. Consciousness may be the instrument the universe invented to look inside itself, but it is a flawed instrument that keeps inverting the lens — the price of consciousness is self-consciousness. Like the tragic flaw that haunts the Greek hero, our greatest strength is also the source of our greatest suffering. With an eye to this tragic flaw of the human animal, Pessoa observes: To stop trying to understand, to stop analyzing… To see ourselves as we see nature, to view our impressions as we view a field — that is true wisdom.
Couple with Pessoa on unselfing into who you really are, then revisit Simone de Beauvoir's instructions to herself for how to have a life worth living and Wendell Berry on how to be a poet and a complete human being. donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For nineteen years, it has remained free and ad-free 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 this labor 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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Born in the heyday of the denial of the human animal's animality, in a world where nature was considered an ember of wildness to extinguish with civilization, its partitioned mystery dissected by various sciences walled off from one another, Alexander von Humboldt (September 14, 1769–May 6, 1859) set out to "establish the unity and harmony of this stupendous mass of force and matter," in which "no single fact can be considered in isolation," giving us the modern understanding of nature as a system. Napoleon hated him for his impassioned anticolonial and abolitionist views. Goethe cherished him as his greatest thinking partner, whose briefest company and conversation felt like "having lived several years." Thoreau thought his very eyes "natural telescopes & microscopes." Whitman declared himself a "kosmos" after the title of Humboldt's epoch-making book. Darwin, looking back on his life, readily acknowledged that without Humboldt's inspiring memoir-travelogue, entire passages of which he could recite by heart, he never would have boarded the Beagle, never would have written On the Origin of Species, never would have had his most transcendent experience while ascending the Andes in Humboldt's footsteps.  Alexander von Humboldt by Friedrich Georg Weitsch, 1806 Humboldt understood that a different way of seeing demands a different way of articulating the seen. Because nature is all there is, he insisted, writing about it demands prose "worthy of bearing witness to the majesty and greatness of the creation" — in other words, almost poetry. (A century and half after him, Rachel Carson would catalyze our ecological imagination with books emanating her conviction that because nature is inherently poetic, "no one could write truthfully about [it] and leave out the poetry.") Such worthiness only comes form a perspective that recognizes interdependence as the source of that majesty. Humboldt writes: In considering the study of physical phenomena, not merely in its bearings on the material wants of life, but in its general influence on the intellectual advancement of humankind, we find its noblest and most important result to be a knowledge of the chain of connection, by which all natural forces are linked together, and made mutually dependent upon each other; and it is the perception of these relations that exalts our views and ennobles our enjoyments.
 Art by Ofra Amit for The Universe in Verse Such a "glimmering perception" of nature's interdependence, Humboldt observes, was always present in so-called "primitive" societies as kind of shadow form, intuited rather than investigated, until science emerged to illuminate its elemental truth through its process of "long and laborious observation." His intimation, two centuries before physicist Richard Feynman made a kindred case in his superb ode to a flower, is that a scientific understanding of nature's processes and phenomena doesn't diminish but deepens our sense of their majesty and of our bright participation in this "great chain of cause and effect." And yet for all "the pleasure of finding things out," in Feynman's lovely phrase, Humboldt located the beating heart of this transcendent enjoyment not in the mind but in our animal sensorium. He was able to see nature as a system because he — unlike his contemporaries, unlike most of us — refused to forget that we are nature too, that we ourselves are systems in which thought and feeling, sensation and perception, impression and imagination are intertwined, that we can only apprehend the rest of nature not as disembodied intellects analyzing it from above but as embodied animals feeling it from within. In the Cartesian era of "I think, therefore I am," Humboldt seems to be saying: "I feel, therefore I understand."  Art by Icinori from Thank You, Everything Epochs before that process of "long and laborious observation" we call science discovered the transcendent state of "soft fascination" that stills the brain's Default Mode Network — the turbine of overthinking — to lens the world through embodied feeling, Humboldt describes it perfectly in this prose poem of a passage from the preface to the first volume of his Cosmos: In reflecting upon the different degrees of enjoyment presented to us in the contemplation of nature, we find that the first place must be assigned to a sensation, which is wholly independent of an intimate acquaintance with the physical phenomena presented to our view, or of the peculiar character of the region surrounding us. In the uniform plain bounded only by a distant horizon, where the lowly heather, the cistus, or waving grasses, deck the soil; on the ocean shore, where the waves, softly rippling over the beach, leave a track, green with the weeds of the sea; every where, the mind is penetrated by the same sense of the grandeur and vast expanse of nature, revealing to the soul, by a mysterious inspiration, the existence of laws that regulate the forces of the universe. Mere communion with nature, mere contact with the free air, exercise a soothing yet strengthening influence on the wearied spirit, calm the storm of passion, and soften the heart when shaken by sorrow to its inmost depths. Every where, in every region of the globe, in every stage of intellectual culture, the same sources of enjoyment are alike vouchsafed to man. The earnest and solemn thoughts awakened by a communion with nature intuitively arise from a presentiment of the order and harmony pervading the whole universe, and from the contrast we draw between the narrow limits of our own existence and the image of infinity revealed on every side, whether we look upward to the starry vault of heaven, scan the far-stretching plain before us, or seek to trace the dim horizon across the vast expanse of ocean.
donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For nineteen years, it has remained free and ad-free 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 this labor 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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How you love, how you give, and how you suffer is just about the sum of who you are. What you make of your suffering is the abacus on which it all adds up. It is there that your capacities to love and to give contract or expand, there that you feel most alone, there that you touch most directly the thread of human experience that binds us. Suffering is the common record of our unreturned messages to hope, and because we are the hoping species, it is inseparable from what makes us human. More than a cerebral operation, it is an experience of the total organism, entwining synapse and sinew, engaging the entire orchestra of hormones and neurotransmitters and enzymes that plays the symphony of aliveness. This is why AIs — those disembodied cerebrators — will never know suffering and, not knowing the transmutation of suffering into meaning we call art, will never be able to write a truly great poem>. (About suffering they will always be wrong, the new masters.) Nick Cave — who has known more grief than most, having lost his young son and lost his own father at a young age, but has remained an unrelenting guardian of joy — takes up the question of that transmutation on the pages of his altogether magnificent book Faith, Hope and Carnage (public library).  Nick Cave transmuting. (Photograph: Sacha Lecca) An epoch after Carl Jung examined the relationship between suffering and creativity, he considers "these terrible, devastating opportunities that bring amelioration and transformation": Perhaps grief can be seen as a kind of exalted state where the person who is grieving is the closest they will ever be to the fundamental essence of things. Because, in grief, you become deeply acquainted with the idea of human mortality. You go to a very dark place and experience the extremities of your own pain — you are taken to the very limits of suffering. As far as I can see, there is a transformative aspect to this place of suffering. We are essentially altered or remade by it. Now, this process is terrifying, but in time you return to the world with some kind of knowledge that has something to do with our vulnerability as participants in this human drama. Everything seems so fragile and precious and heightened, and the world and the people in it seem so endangered, and yet so beautiful.
In a passage that calls to mind the great Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön's insistence that "only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us," he adds: Suffering is, by its nature, the primary mechanism of change… It somehow presents us with the opportunity to transform into something else, something different, hopefully something better… This change is not something we necessarily seek out; rather, change is often brought to bear upon us, through a shattering or annihilation of our former selves.
Reflecting on how his son's death left him feeling unbearably alone and at the same time "swept up in a kind of commonality of human suffering," he recounts the lifeline of kindness that strangers extended to him and his wife — "points of light" lit up by that silent understanding of suffering we all carry in our marrow, illuminating the deepest truth of human nature that we have been bamboozled into disbelieving: We began to see, in a profound way, that people were kind. People cared. I know that sounds simplistic, maybe even naïve, but I came to the conclusion that the world wasn't bad, at all — in fact, what we think of as bad, or as sin, is actually suffering. And that the world is not animated by evil, as we are so often told, but by love, and that, despite the suffering of the world, or maybe in defiance of it, people mostly just cared. I think Susie and I instinctively understood that we needed to move towards this loving force, or perish.
 Art from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days, also available as a stand-alone print and as stationery cards. Pulsating beneath The Red Hand Files — Nick's soulful almanac of wisdom prompted by questions from fans — is this ongoing yearning to make use of our suffering. He addresses it directly in one issue: What do we do with suffering? As far as I can see, we have two choices — we either transform our suffering into something else, or we hold on to it, and eventually pass it on. In order to transform our pain, we must acknowledge that all people suffer. By understanding that suffering is the universal unifying force, we can see people more compassionately, and this goes some way toward helping us forgive the world and ourselves. By acting compassionately we reduce the world's net suffering, and defiantly rehabilitate the world. It is an alchemical act that transforms pain into beauty. This is good. This is beautiful. To not transform our suffering and instead transmit our pain to others, in the form of abuse, torture, hatred, misanthropy, cynicism, blaming and victimhood, compounds the world's suffering. Most sin is simply one person's suffering passed on to another. This is not good. This is not beautiful. The utility of suffering, then, is the opportunity it affords us to become better human beings. It is the engine of our redemption.
Complement with Simone Weil on how to make use of our suffering and the young poet Anne Reeve Aldrich on how to bear your suffering in an extraordinary letter to Emily Dickinson — neither of whom got to be an old poet — then revisit Nick Cave on the art of growing older and the two pillars of a meaningful life. donating=lovingEvery month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For nineteen years, it has remained free and ad-free 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 this labor 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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ALSO: The Coziest Place on the Moon 
An illustrated fable about how to live with loneliness and what it means to love
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