As someone who never was afforded the innocence that theoretically childhood is supposed to provide (instead, I got Quakers who never looked away from the complications of violence, racism, and capitalism outside our house, while resolutely ignoring the complications of those things inside our house. Moral courage escapes even Quakers sometimes.) I would argue that fiction is one of the only reliable ways to survive this often painful world. We need beauty. We need rest. We need magic and fantasy and the miracle of being able to climb inside someone else's head and heart for a while and feel not quite so isolated in our troubles.
The best fiction, and I would include L'Engle in that category for sure, affords us a deep sense of connection to the human family, which is the antidote to despair. Yes, get that book on climate change. Yes, learn more about Afghanistan and Haiti and all the places that real people are suffering. But don't ever feel guilty about using fiction to survive. It is one of the only things that allowed me to survive my childhood without falling straight off the end of the world, and I am so thankful to be alive now, even in a world as heartbreaking as this one.
This is gorgeous. Thank you for the reminder. Perhaps it's less titration and more shape-shifting -- we can look at the facts and we can look at the fiction and both of them say something true about the pain of our world. And the possibility.
I think it is both/and. I am reminded of when my oldest, who is now 18, reached that age where he was drawn to Goosebumps and all of that dark, but also juvenile, horror fiction. I didn't know how to feel about it, but a soul teacher of mine told me that kids that age are often drawn to that sort of story because they are just beginning developmentally to sense their own darkness and internal complexity, as well as the darkness and complexity of the world, but they don't yet know how to relate to it consciously. So reading that sort of fiction allows them to experience it at a safe distance, feel the feelings and have the thoughts, without the emotional stakes being quite so high. It is like emotional homeopathy. Giving them a little bit of darkness so they can figure out how to incorporate it and activate their own internal, emotional immune system.
I think we still do this as adults, though it's less developmentally necessary. We feel BIG FEELINGS-- overwhelm, grief, despair, anger. Good fiction helps us metabolize those feelings by depersonalizing them. We are reminded that we aren't the only one that feels them. But also it allows for that sympathetic shape-shifting, titering them through the safe consumption of a narrative which is not our own.
"Good fiction helps us metabolize those feelings...it allows for that sympathetic shape-shifting, titering them through the safe consumption of a narrative which is not our own."
No, I'm not getting tired of your words. I can't even imagine it. I always find such an important sense of recognition and fierce solace in your words.
I sent your piece to at least three people--just yesterday. One is a dear friend whose husband, also a dear friend, is at the end of life. With three children, they are holding joy and sadness amidst the unpredictability of this illness and the world at large. I needed to read this but she did even more. Thank you for it.
How I needed this today as our small community fights vaccination and masking for children and my elderly friend attends a superspreader event and then comes to my home maskless and friends struggle with breakthrough Covid Delta. It's too much. And balance seems like a utopian dream. I love the Chodron quote, her book sits on my little table next to me. Thank you for your exquisite timing sensibility for writing the wisdom I seem to be hungry for. Bless bless. 💕
As someone who never was afforded the innocence that theoretically childhood is supposed to provide (instead, I got Quakers who never looked away from the complications of violence, racism, and capitalism outside our house, while resolutely ignoring the complications of those things inside our house. Moral courage escapes even Quakers sometimes.) I would argue that fiction is one of the only reliable ways to survive this often painful world. We need beauty. We need rest. We need magic and fantasy and the miracle of being able to climb inside someone else's head and heart for a while and feel not quite so isolated in our troubles.
The best fiction, and I would include L'Engle in that category for sure, affords us a deep sense of connection to the human family, which is the antidote to despair. Yes, get that book on climate change. Yes, learn more about Afghanistan and Haiti and all the places that real people are suffering. But don't ever feel guilty about using fiction to survive. It is one of the only things that allowed me to survive my childhood without falling straight off the end of the world, and I am so thankful to be alive now, even in a world as heartbreaking as this one.
This is gorgeous. Thank you for the reminder. Perhaps it's less titration and more shape-shifting -- we can look at the facts and we can look at the fiction and both of them say something true about the pain of our world. And the possibility.
I think it is both/and. I am reminded of when my oldest, who is now 18, reached that age where he was drawn to Goosebumps and all of that dark, but also juvenile, horror fiction. I didn't know how to feel about it, but a soul teacher of mine told me that kids that age are often drawn to that sort of story because they are just beginning developmentally to sense their own darkness and internal complexity, as well as the darkness and complexity of the world, but they don't yet know how to relate to it consciously. So reading that sort of fiction allows them to experience it at a safe distance, feel the feelings and have the thoughts, without the emotional stakes being quite so high. It is like emotional homeopathy. Giving them a little bit of darkness so they can figure out how to incorporate it and activate their own internal, emotional immune system.
I think we still do this as adults, though it's less developmentally necessary. We feel BIG FEELINGS-- overwhelm, grief, despair, anger. Good fiction helps us metabolize those feelings by depersonalizing them. We are reminded that we aren't the only one that feels them. But also it allows for that sympathetic shape-shifting, titering them through the safe consumption of a narrative which is not our own.
"Good fiction helps us metabolize those feelings...it allows for that sympathetic shape-shifting, titering them through the safe consumption of a narrative which is not our own."
YES!
Thank you Asha -- this resonates
No, I'm not getting tired of your words. I can't even imagine it. I always find such an important sense of recognition and fierce solace in your words.
Thank you. "Fierce solace" is my new band name.
Yes to “fierce solace”! Reminds me of this excellent resource I just came across: https://training.npr.org/2021/06/28/the-case-against-collocations-word-pairs-that-stifle-creativity/
Thank you! What a cool resource.
This is great - thanks for sharing it!
I sent your piece to at least three people--just yesterday. One is a dear friend whose husband, also a dear friend, is at the end of life. With three children, they are holding joy and sadness amidst the unpredictability of this illness and the world at large. I needed to read this but she did even more. Thank you for it.
I hope it is some solace. Thanks for sharing it.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I really needed to hear/read this today.
I am indeed Aunt Beast. And maybe I'm old school, but David Remnick! Holy bananas.
Of course! Let's both be her. Love you.
How I needed this today as our small community fights vaccination and masking for children and my elderly friend attends a superspreader event and then comes to my home maskless and friends struggle with breakthrough Covid Delta. It's too much. And balance seems like a utopian dream. I love the Chodron quote, her book sits on my little table next to me. Thank you for your exquisite timing sensibility for writing the wisdom I seem to be hungry for. Bless bless. 💕
Thinking of you Karen. Sounds like A LOT to be weathering.
How kind. Thank you.